Where the Piper Leads
by Anne O' the Island
Summary: During the Great War, Walter followed the Piper across the sea to fight for King and Country. He followed him faithfully through England and Flanders, France and Germany. But the Piper has taken many lives...will he spare Walter's?
1. Prologue

_Hello, my dears - I am back!_

 _And with a completely different story, this time. I've left Anne and Gilbert in the "Teacher"-universe (although I won't be leaving them there for long) and am now concentrating on their children. Specifically, Walter. I don't know about you, but I had a major problem with his death...I confess that I cried buckets the first time I read Rilla of Ingleside. So a while and many, many PMs ago, kslchen suggested a plausible way for Walter to have made it through the war alive...and this is the product. Kslchen, by the way, is my invaluable beta-reader and fact-checker (and the mind behind the title of this work)...and has already made improvements I would not have thought of (heartfelt thanks!)._

 _I will admit that the fact that we are in 2018, the 100th anniversary of the Armistice, is what got me thinking about this story in the first place. The words "Lest We Forget" have now been solidly seared into my brain, and with reason. I was going to give myself until November 11th to finish this story, and I will hold myself to it as long as I can...although I am doubtful as to my ability to meet it._

 _Until then, however, I invite you to join me in following the Piper...who seems to be leading this story, anyhow._

* * *

June 1919

The soldier sat alone on the train, his back straight against the unforgiving hardness of the bench behind him. Outside, the red roads and countryside of his childhood rolled by, the distant sea barely visible beyond.

No one spoke to him. There was an air about him that asked, politely, to be left alone. It was the air of someone who had seen more, felt more, and suffered more than a body had a right to in an entire lifetime. This pain had added years to him that time had not yet had opportunity to, although his youth was still evident in the tilt of his lips, the darkness of his hair. Coupled with his eyes, which could have belonged to a man thrice his age, it was a startling effect.

And so the soldier sat alone. But alone, for him, was the preferred state to be in. Surrounded by people felt suffocating, as though he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. But now, alone on the train, the soldier could think. He thought about the past four years, the things he had seen, the people he had left behind. Like so many, he had left a girl behind him. Was she still there? Had she found someone else? Then there was his family. They thought him dead, his dog tags returned to them some time ago. They thought the Piper had come for him.

In a way, he had. He had followed the Piper where he had led him, to his native land. He had followed the Piper across an ocean, through foxholes and trenches, into No Man's Land. He had followed him through camps, farms and factories, never expecting the Piper to release him with his life. But the Piper had not taken him with him. It seemed that after years of service, the Piper had decided to release him. Sometimes, he could still hear him, piping away over the next hill. But the music, the call of it, would always grow faint and disappear, no longer having the hold over him it had once had.

The Piper had set him free.

The train slowed as it approached the station. This was it - his stop. He gathered his bag, nodded to the man across the aisle from him, and made for the door at the end of the car. Stepping off the train, he looked around, taking in the sights which were so familiar, but at the same time achingly foreign. Suddenly, a black-and-yellow ball of fur shot at him, yelping with joy. How he had known that the soldier would be there was a mystery, but the station agent, who had already seen one such reunion, knew that this dog had an uncanny sense when it came to his masters.

This reunion, however, was quieter. The soldier simply leaned down, gave the dog a fond scratch behind the ears, and with a whistle in the dog's direction, set off down the lane, the dog at his heels, both of them bound for the old house that lay at the end of it.

Walter Blythe had come home.


	2. No Gallant Son of Freedom

_It has occured to me that I probably should do a better job of explaining the base of this story. For those of you who are wondering, I am not going to be using The Blythes Are Quoted for reference. I am going to try to leave as much of Rilla of Ingleside unaltered as possible, since I'm going for a plausible way for Walter to have survived. If I change parts of RoI, I'll let you know that I did, although I don't expect to have to do too much of that. And as ever, the deadline for finishing is 11:11 AM on Novermber 11th, 2018._

 _If I missed anything, or if you still have questions, let me know via PM or review._

 _All right, then - on with the show!_

* * *

 _No Gallant son of Freedom_

19 March, 1915

The streets of Kingsport were filled with soldiers of all kinds. Short, tall, old, young, a plethora of accents and backgrounds - but they all had one thing in common: they had been brave enough to step up and serve King and Country.

Walter hadn't.

He fingered the white feather that had come in the post that morning. It had been in an envelope addressed to Walter Blythe, but there had not been a note accompanying it. Only the feather, white as snow, had slipped out of the envelope when he'd opened it.

The white feather - the mark of a coward. He knew that was what people thought of him, and of any able-bodied man who wasn't in uniform, but the insult stung nonetheless. Some days, he would march himself down to the recruitment office, only to turn back at the last second. He wasn't yet completely over the effects of typhoid, he told himself. He could join up later, in the summer maybe, when he was finally well. Meanwhile, all he could do was watch the boys march by, two by two, as though off to a Sunday-school picnic.

They all thought it was one grand adventure, didn't they? That glory could be found on the other side of the Atlantic, and that this war would be over soon - but not so soon that it ended before they got a chance to fight in it.

Couldn't they see that they would most likely end up _lying alone torn and mangled, burning with thirst on a cold, wet field, surrounded by dead and dying men?*_ War wasn't a game - it was deadly - and gruesome - and _awful_. Walter could barely stand the idea of it...how could he survive its reality?

He was a coward, after all. He ought to just pin on that white feather and proclaim it to the world. Reaching into his pocket to retrieve the feather he'd stowed there, his fingers brushed against another envelope - that's right, Una's letter had come in the post that morning as well, but he had been too shaken up about the white feather to pay it any mind. He escaped the crowded streets now, slipping into the park and sitting down on a nearby bench, before opening the letter, pulling out the papers covered in Una's narrow hand.

He liked getting letters from Una Meredith, thought Walter. She looked so wistful and girlish, but underneath was a _wonderful firmness_ * which appeared in these letters she sent him every so often. They weren't funny, nor flighty, the way Rilla's could sometimes be, but he always came out of them feeling better, both about himself and life in general - a feeling that was in rather short supply these days, it seemed.

Walter finally began reading his letter, starting with the date

 _Presbyterian Manse_

 _Glen St. Mary, PEI_

 _12 March 1915_

 _Dear Walter,_

 _I received your latest just over a week ago - forgive me that I'm replying now, but the Manse has been decidedly busy lately. It is currently undergoing a very thorough - and slightly early - spring cleaning. And as happens when houses are cleaned, things are never where one has left them. Prior to writing you, I spent fifteen minutes hunting for my pen._

 _I hope that Redmond is still as good to you as you claim it has been. I seem to remember that March is that month where it feels as though the school year will never end. I see some of your former students whenever I go to Lowbridge, and they ask me how Mr. Blythe is doing. I give them your regards, by the way, assuming that you would do so yourself if you could._

 _It is strange, however, to hear you referred to as "Mr. Blythe". It seems only yesterday that we were all happily playing in Rainbow Valley, and here we are, grown up. How the world has changed…_

 _Well, Mr. Blythe, what can I add to this letter to hopefully brighten a Nova Scotia March? That Carl brought in his first creatures of the season? He has taken up his freemasonry with the beetles again, although the larger ones are still asleep, thank heavens. I shudder to think what he'll bring in once the weather warms, however. A mouse? Or worse - mice ? Please, no snakes. You know how I am with snakes._

 _I know you detest any talk of war, but you mentioned in your last that several more boys from your year had joined up. I took this to mean that you did in fact want to talk about it, although if I am mistaken, please skip ahead. You say that you don't want to be a coward - well, you're in luck there, because you aren't. Bravery, my father says, manifests itself in many different ways. You don't have to be King David facing Goliath to be brave. For instance, I've never left the Island - and you have. To me, that's already a brave step. And remember that the Order of the White Feather is only there to prey on the insecurities of those who have stayed behind. These men already think that they are somehow cowards, and the Order tries to make them feel worse about themselves. Don't give in to them, Walter. We don't think any less of you for staying back. I don't think any less of you, if that makes a difference._

 _Yours,_

 _Una_

Reading Una's letters made him feel as though there were still some good left in this world. He pocketed the letter, the Piper's insistent tune quieted at least temporarily, and set off for his boardinghouse. He had an essay to write for his Philosophy class on Friday.

An ever-dwindling class, might he add. It was entirely possible that, should things continue the way they did, he would be the only student left by the end of the school year.

* * *

 _Drummond Street_

 _Kingsport, NS_

 _24 March, 1915_

 _Dear Una,_

 _I find myself wishing that my boardinghouse would undergo a spring cleaning of its own. My landlady, Mrs. Hartness, recently sprained her ankle, and while we (dwindling) boys do our best, the house is slowly descending into a form of chaos. I think we at Ingleside never quite realized how large a mess more than two boys could make - we always had mother and Susan to lessen the effects. Now that we're on our own, so to speak, I think we've developed a newfound respect for our mothers and housekeepers. The number of times I've swept mud and dirt out of the entrance is truly phenomenal._

 _Redmond is...well, like you said, it's March in Nova Scotia. I'm slowly beginning to see signs of spring in places - the snowdrops around the front stoop, for one - but I have a feeling it'll be a while yet before it truly warms up._

 _It feels as though the entire campus is tensed, waiting for something to happen. So many have joined up, and those who haven't are positively drowning in white feathers. I think I should be able to stuff a pillow with mine by now. Or make Mrs. Hartness a feather duster._

 _I've told myself that I won't join up before the end of the school year, although I don't know what the point of a year of university is if I'm going to Flanders._

 _In more cheerful news, I think the possibility of my passing Statistics is increasing. It's been a thorn in my side all semester, and if I can pass it with at least an 80, I shall be satisfied. All other classes are not in jeopardy of a grade that would be an embarrassment to the son of the winner of the Cooper prize. And did you know that there are still some professors here who remember my parents? Dr. Emerson in Philosophy, and Professor Gardner in English (although it's not entirely clear how he knows my mother - he's rather too young to have been a professor in the '80s...classmate, perhaps?)_

 _~Pause as a platoon of Highlanders marches past.~_

 _Una, after watching them march up, down, and around Kingsport, I have to wonder what on earth is going to happen. Humans, contrary to the high command's impressions, are not an inexhaustible resource. At some point, there won't be any men left. And when (not if) that happens, what will we do? Use children?_

 _It's thoughts like this that make me wonder about enlisting. I know that it's more a case of when instead of if for me, but every time I look at a boy between the ages of ten and fourteen, I have to wonder if his turn to go to the front will someday come. You remember the Piper of our youth, don't you? There are days when I think I can hear him again, piping away over the hills, leading the boys away._

 _I'm sorry to be burdening you with this - God knows you don't deserve it._

 _Yours,_

 _Walter_

 _P.S. Bravery, you can tell your father, is looking your fear straight in the eye. I have yet to get past the boots._

 _Well, I'm off, to present Mrs. Hartness with her new duster._

 _W.C.B_

* * *

It was the end of April when the next blow came, in the form of one of Una's letters.

 _Did you know,_ it began, _that Kenneth Ford has enlisted? Apparently that ankle he broke playing football last year has healed sufficiently, and now he'll be off to Europe with the other boys. I cannot help but notice how many of the old crowd have gone already. They are all safe (word used relatively) at present, praise God. But I have a feeling that this war won't be over by Christmas, as everyone keeps telling us, Walter. Many, many more boys will have to go "across the foam" before this ends. Ken Ford is only one of the first._

 _I've been told he joined up with the 3rd Toronto Battalion, and is off to training in a week or so. He may get some leave, and come visit Glen St. Mary after seeing his family in Toronto. You might be able to see him then, or possibly in Kingsport before he ships out. I know a lot of convoys stay in Kingsport or Halifax before going to England._

 _I think it was the news of the fighting at Ypres that pushed him over the top, as it were. The Daily Enterprise is filled with accounts of shelling and gas, and I'm sure the papers in Kingsport and Toronto must be, as well._

Walter pocketed the letter, feeling ill. He had seen the headlines - "Germans Gain Ground Near Ypres By Using Asphyxiating Gas", and the very thought of such things happening, of men slowly dying on the battlefield as their lungs ceased to function, made him wonder if there was still any good left in this world. It seemed cowardly, to use chemicals to kill scores of men just like that - but efficient, he had to hand it to them.

He knew that Shirley, Ingleside's resident animal-lover, would be positively heartsick at the thought of the horses and mules that were being slaughtered along with the men, and made a note to ask him about it in his next letter.

And apropos of letters, and those who wrote them…

So Ken had joined up as well, had he? He was never a prolific letter-writer, but somehow his last letter hadn't said anything about enlisting. Of course, Walter knew that Ken had been chomping at the bit to enlist, cursing his weak ankle all the way.

Ken had his ankle, Walter his typhoid. The difference, of course, was that Ken had actually enlisted, and would be off to "clean the Kaiser's clock", as the boys on campus put it.

Oh, the Piper's call was stronger now, the flute-like strains of his melody wrapping themselves around him, pulling him closer still. Someday, they would give one more tug, and that would be it. He, like so many others before him, would have to follow the Piper.

But he didn't want to. The very idea of warfare repulsed him - the systematic killing of man and beast- and he didn't think he could endure the thought of looking a man in the eyes and taking his life. He might be someone's husband, brother, sweetheart...what right did he have to take his life? To cause someone else unimaginable pain?

Was it really worth the price?

The Piper's song rose up into the sky, seeming to escape towards the stars, leading the boys ever onward.

* * *

 _*Rilla of Ingleside_ **  
**

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song, "Keep the Home Fires Burning" (Lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, music by Ivor Novello, 1914)_


	3. Haunt Me Through and Through

_Hello again, Anne-girls! I promise I've not disappeared off the face of the earth. I've merely been on holiday - without internet...or a lot of technology - which is why you haven't seen any updates from my corner in about a month. But I'm back now, so Walter and Co. can be appropriately sent through the emotional wringer._

 _Oh, dear. I may have just spoiled a bit of the story. But "Tragedy" is one of the genres here, after all..._

* * *

 _17 May, 1915_

Walter stepped off the train at Glen St. Mary after Nan and Di, a suitcase in one hand and another coward's letter in the other. It had come just that morning, as he was leaving his boarding house. This time, however, the white feather had been accompanied by a note:

 _Thousands have enlisted - what's wrong with you?_

That wasn't the only thing, either. On his way from purchasing his ticket home yesterday, he had been ambushed by what felt like the entire Kingsport contingent of the Order of the White Feather. They had swooped in on him, rather like a flock of the birds whose feathers they passed out, and by the time he had forced his way through the lot of them, he was covered in lipstick marks, had lost his hat, and had white feathers sticking out of every pocket and crevice. His ears were still ringing with their accusations of "Coward" and "Duty-dodger," by the time he arrived at his boarding house.

He had to wonder: did they ambush every man who wasn't in uniform this way, or was he the only one who warranted this sort of special treatment?

The Piper sounded closer now, as though he were just around the corner. That explained the large amounts of boys in khaki coming from the recruitment office, he supposed. The pied piper was calling his children across the foam.

He was roused from his thoughts by an enthusiastic Dog Monday, who had flung himself at him with a frantic joy. But when Walter leaned down to pat him, Monday looked past him, an expectant look in his eyes.

"Sorry, Monday," Walter said softly, "Jem's not here."

Monday gave him a little lick, as if to say, "It's not your fault," and trotted back to the kennel that had been erected for him. If Walter knew Dog Monday - and he did - that dog was going to stay there until Jem came home.

Walter looked back at him before stepping up to his family. "Hello, Mother - Dad - Rilla."

His mother gave him a kiss on the cheek before wrapping her arms around him. "Hello, darling," she looked up at him, her large grey eyes, a few shades lighter than his own, now filled with worry and sorrow. He could see the toll the past nine months had taken on her, hard as she tried to mask it with her natural spunk.

His father shook his hand. "Redmond's still standing, I take it?"

"Well, something's got to prop up all that ivy," Walter hiked up a grin for Dad's benefit before being pulled into a hug by his baby sister - now a baby no longer.

"Hi, Rilla-my-Rilla," he noticed that she had grown again, and that she reached to his nose now instead of his chin, "how are the Junior Reds?"

"We're putting on a concert to help the Belgians," she informed him eagerly, "but we've had the most awful time rehearsing. _Miranda Pryor promised to help with a dialogue and when she had her part all learnt her father put his foot down and refused to allow her to help at all. I am not blaming Miranda exactly, but I do think she might have a little more spunk sometimes. If she put her foot down once in a while she might bring her father to terms, for she is all the housekeeper he has and what would he do if she 'struck'? If I were in Miranda's shoes…*_ " he let her prattle on as they made their way to where the horses were hitched.

"And how is your war-baby?" he asked her, referring to the baby Rilla had taken in, and was bound and determined to raise single-handedly...with a little help from Susan, of course.

" _Jims cut his first tooth today,"_ Rilla informed him proudly. " _I am very glad, for he is nearly nine months old and Mary Vance has been insinuating that he is awfully backward about cutting his teeth. He has begun to creep but doesn't crawl as most babies do._ "* by now, they were well on their way to Ingleside, and as they passed the little path that led toward Rainbow Valley, Walter tapped his father on the back.

"I'll get off here, Dad - I'll join you later, but I'd like to see Rainbow Valley first."

Hopping out of the buggy, Walter disappeared down the overgrown path, over roots, past mossy trees and overgrown ferns. He had always wondered if this is what the prehistoric forests had looked like. Up ahead, the trail broadened and became lighter, and Walter emerged from it, stepping into Rainbow Valley, which was now carpeted with the whiteness of the first mayflowers. He stooped down to pick a bundle, and once he had straightened up, looked around again, taking careful stock of his surroundings.

Rainbow Valley was gloriously unchanged. Here, he felt at least five years younger, and wondered if the fact that he had spent the majority of his growing-up-years here was a contributing factor. This was where they - the Ingleside and Manse children - had played, had read, and had occasionally done homework, although that last one was reserved mostly for Walter and Una, the two quietest of the bunch.

He wondered where Una was now; her last letter had come two weeks ago, and she knew that he would be coming home that week. He decided that he would pay a call to the Manse as soon as possible to say hello - to her, and to the Manse folk as well.

Suddenly, the silence around him - funny how he hadn't noticed the silence until it had been broken - was split by the sound of pipes. Walter's head snapped round, looking in the direction from which the bagpipes were sounding. They were coming closer - any moment now, their player was going to come over the rise and into Rainbow Valley.

For a moment, Walter wondered whether to hide behind the nearest tree and wait for this piper to march past, or to wait for him to appear - it was probably someone he knew, anyways.

But while the sound of bagpipes came closer, their piper did not appear. It was only when the valley was so filled with their sound that Walter had clapped his hand over his ears, that he finally recognized the tune. The instrument was different now, but the melody was the same; the _wild music_ * he knew so well, whether it came from a flute or bagpipe, calling stridently for one and all to come assemble.

The Piper, it seemed, had traded his flute in for a set of bagpipes. The Piper was in earnest now. And he - and Jem, and Jerry, and Carl - would have to follow him, just as Walter had said they would all those years ago, on this same spot.

It seemed fitting, thought Walter somewhere over the din that covering his ears did very little to mitigate, that the Piper of his youth was now playing the instrument that had called up men from all over the British empire.

As the music faded away, Walter realized that he was shaking, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. Scooping up another handful of mayflowers for Mother - Jem had always brought her some of the first mayflowers, and Walter thought he might do the same, now that Jem wasn't here - he hied himself home, trying to ignore the feeling of unease that persisted even as the Piper's music died.

* * *

Mother had liked the mayflowers, thought Walter as he stepped out onto the veranda, but she would have liked them more if they had come from Jem. He didn't blame her, of course - Jem was the son who might die any day, might never come home - and there was the Piper's song again. Couldn't a man get a single _bloody_ minute without that incessant wailing? He had much preferred it when the Piper hadn't had bagpipes.

Walter spotted the white-clad figure of Rilla down by the far end of the garden, and went to join here there.

" _It's good to see P.E.I. twilight once more,"_ he said, trying to dispel thoughts of the Piper, war and white feathers, _"I didn't really remember that the sea was so blue and the roads so red and the wood nooks so wild and fairy haunted. Yes, the fairies still abide here. I vow I could find scores of them under the violets in Rainbow Valley."_ His cheerfulness felt slightly forced, but Rilla didn't seem to notice.

 _"And isn't the sky blue over Rainbow Valley?" she said, "Blue—blue—you'd have to say 'blue' a hundred times before you could express how blue it is."_

 _Susan wandered by, her head tied up with a shawl, her hands full of garden implements. Doc, stealthy and wild-eyed, was shadowing her steps among the spirea bushes._

 _"The sky may be blue," said Susan, "but that cat has been Hyde all day so we will likely have rain tonight and by the same token I have rheumatism in my shoulder."_

 _"It may rain—but don't think rheumatism, Susan—think violets,"_ Walter tried to force some cheer into his tone. His smile felt brittle as he fought to keep it in place, and he watched Susan narrow her eyes at him consideringly.

 _Indeed, Walter dear, I do not know what you mean by thinking violets," she responded, "and rheumatism is not a thing to be joked about, as you may some day realize for yourself. I hope I am not of the kind that is always complaining of their aches and pains, especially now when the news is so terrible. Rheumatism is bad enough but I realize, and none better, that it is not to be compared to being gassed by the Huns."_

 _"Oh, my God, no!"*_ The phrase was out of his mouth before he could even think about stopping it. He turned towards the house, visions of Germans, chlorine gas, and suffocation running through his mind. He could see the mud of the trenches in front of him, hear the guns rumbling all around him, and feel the gas burning at his eyes and throat.

And above it all, the whispered accusation:

" _Coward."_

Walter would not sleep well that night.

* * *

* _Rilla of Ingleside_

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song "Pyramid's Loneliness" (words and music by Les. Coney, 1917)_

 _There are two notes today: one on bagpipes, and another on the use of the word "hi". Let's start with the bagpipes, shall we? When I first read RoI, the only "pipes" that I knew of were bagpipes. So it was only natural, I suppose, that the Piper of my imagination played bagpipes (an instrument which, by the way, my mother abhors, and my younger brother desperately wants to take up. Guess who's winning :) ) Well, after a discussion with kslchen, I learned that the Piper was originally playing something more flute-like. Hence an entire paragraph on the change of instrument._

 _And now, I have a note on the use of the word "hi". I was a little apprehensive about using it here, but after a quick consultation with Profs. Google and Webster, I discovered that the first usage of "hi" was found in 1862, long before this story takes place. Walter, a good college boy, would have certainly had this greeting as part of his vocabulary. "Hi" (don't ask me why I keep putting it in quotations) is derived from the Middle English hei, hai, ai, eh and heh which were (and I quote), "expressing challenge, rebuttal, anger, derision, sorrow, or concern; also a shout of encouragement to hunting dogs."_

 _The popularity of "hi" as a greeting coincided with the rise in popularity of "hello", which - as discussed somewhere in the AoGG forums - also coincided with the use of the telephone. Incidentally, "hello" won out over Alexander Graham Bell's suggested greeting: "Ahoy."_

 _Just imagine: had things been only slightly different, we might all be bawling "Ahoy!" down the phone lines every time we called someone :)_

 _And that, my dears, is your fun fact for the day._

 _It's so nice to be back!  
Anne_


	4. Lonely Thoughts My Heart Do Fill

_Behold! Another chapter!_

 _Before we begin, I have some notes to give out: this is a story that is mostly told from Walter and Una's points of view. There is method to this madness: in RoI, most everything is from Rilla's point of view, and while we all love the obsession with Ken, a fifteen year old girl might not be the most reliable narrator when it comes to her brother's love life - even if that brother is Walter. So I guess the point I'm trying to make here is that an alternate title to this story could be, "What Rilla Didn't Know."_

 _Also, thank you to kslchen - without her, any romance in this story would have shot ahead at light speed...and we don't want that. Thanks to her intervention, we may actually get to stop and smell the roses._

* * *

The roiling skies the next morning were an apt reflection of Walter's mood. He had slept badly, slipping in and out of dreams of war and death and pipers, punctuated by the growls of thunder of the storm outside. Even now, as he made his way down from the house to Rainbow Valley, the sky still threatened rain, and he wondered if he should turn back for a slicker. He had excused himself from breakfast hastily, the music from his dreams still ringing in his ears, and come down to Rainbow Valley in the hopes of clearing his head at least a little.

The sky above Rainbow Valley was not the hundred-fold blue Rilla had described the night before. If anything, it looked angrier than ever, the heavy clouds twisting themselves into ever-changing shapes above. Where it had been a momentarily peaceful haven yesterday, today it was a brooding scene of white, green and grey.

It was also occupied. A dark-haired figure unfolded itself from underneath the large tree across the clearing, and as he approached her, Walter made out the shy smile and shining eyes of Una Meredith.

And suddenly, he wasn't entirely certain what to do with himself. Their year of correspondence had changed things between them. They had always been good friends and comfortable around each other, but in his letters, he had told her things he would have never divulged to another living soul.

So now she stood before him, the keeper of his deepest secrets. How did one greet the keeper of one's deepest secrets, he wondered?

He finally stuck out his hand - a trifle awkwardly, he had to admit. "Hello, Una."

Her hand was small and warm in his, but had a firm grip. "Good morning, Walter." The twinkle in her sapphire-blue eyes was the only indication of her pleasure at seeing him.

"I was going to call at the Manse within the next few days to say hello, but you seem to have beaten me to it," he said.

Una inclined her head. "You sounded...disturbed...in your last letter," she said quietly. Una was always quiet, never pitching her voice much louder than a murmur for as long as circumstances allowed. "You always come here when you need to think," she added. "I had a feeling I would be able to find you here sooner or later."

A chuckle worked its way up and out of him. Of everyone in Glen St. Mary, there were probably two people who knew him best now - Mother and Una. "And speaking of sooner or later…"

"Have you told them yet?" she asked.

They were now seated beneath the same tree they used to do their homework under, its canopy spreading out above them, rustling in the wind.

Walter shook his head. "Truth be told, I'm afraid of telling them. I'm afraid of what it will do to Mother - she's already got Jem to worry about, after all. And Rilla - I don't want to see the look on her face when I tell her I'm -" he broke off, unable to verbalize exactly what it was that he was going to do. Oh, he know what he had to do - follow the Piper. He just wished it weren't so difficult. But if it were easy, he would have left long ago with the rest of them.

Next to him, Una turned her head to look at him, her eyes understanding.

And if he'd left at the first sign of war, he wouldn't be here with her. That was something, he thought.

"What am I going to do?" he asked softly, more to himself than to her.

A small smile twisted her lips. "That's not for me to say - or even to know, Walter. I won't be the one to tell you to go, but I will not be the one holding you back if this is something you believe in."

"Letting me make the difficult decision?"

"If you like." She took a half-finished blanket out of her handwork bag, spread it across her lap, and began to crochet across. "Mrs. McGarrity is expecting another baby by the end of the month," she said by way of explanation. "It's her fifth, and I want it to have something nice that it can call its own."

Walter watched her hands as they looped yarn around the hook, pulled it up, looped it again, and pulled it through. It was restful, watching her work this way, almost like meditation or prayer. He wondered if this was her way of calming down.

"Una - "

She looked up from her work, but her hands kept the same pace they had before. "Yes?"

"Writing to you these past months," he took a deep breath, knowing what he wanted to convey, but for once lacking the words to do so, "writing to you...was one of the few bright spots in my life."

He watched as her hands stilled and a blush, the color of tea roses, slowly warmed her pale cheeks. Her lips parted as though she were about to say something, but had thought better of it. Finally, she looked up at him and said, "I'm glad I could be of help."

"Your letters," he wasn't sure why he was saying this, but something told him he had to get it all out, "were like nothing else I've read. They made me feel like there was still some good in this world."

"Walter, there will always be good in this world," _so long as you are in it_ , she added to herself. "We only need to look to see it - and to realize that sometimes, it is right in front of us."

"Or right beside us."

The oxygen left Una's lungs in a _whoosh_ of air. Had he just…? "Or right beside us," she echoed before standing abruptly, cramming her half-finished blanket, yarn and hook into her bag, squashing them terribly - time enough to iron and untangle later. "I need to go. I've stayed far longer than I intended, and Mother Rosemary wanted me home by ten. And I'm keeping you from your family - they must be wanting to spend time with you after not having you at home all these months. Oh! And it looks like rain -" she haphazardly waved her hand at the sky before grasping Walter's hand in farewell. "Good-bye, Walter. I'll see you after church on Sunday."

And with that, she set off towards home, doing her level best not to fall flat on her face.

* * *

Walter watched Una go, a look of utter bemusement on his face. She'd said she was going home - but why was she taking the path that went in the opposite direction? She'd stood up as though stung, made some hasty good-bye out of thin air, and raced off as though the hounds of Hell were nipping at her heels.

He'd known Una Meredith since he was ten years old, and he had never seen her act this way. They'd been having a perfectly good conversation - hadn't they? And then up she went, running for the hills.

Was it something he'd said?

He'd mentioned the letters, and writing to her. Racking his brain, he tried to remember exactly what he'd written to her throughout the past year. Several times, he'd written about his cowardice - sometimes with language his father had impressed on him _never_ to use in front of a lady. Those had usually been written late at night, when his mind was so foggy that whatever he wrote went straight from his head to the paper, bypassing his common sense entirely. Then there had been occasional humorous clippings from the newspaper, and the odd caricature drawn by his roommate. Once in a while, he had sent her a poem he'd written - and she would always reply with a few thoughtful lines on his writing.

In his last letters to her, he had confessed that he knew that he would join up. _Sooner or later_ , he had said. Sooner or later, the Piper's call would become too strong to resist, and he would follow him wherever he led.

He wondered if he would be able to write to Una when that happened. With her, he didn't have to be Walter Blythe, university student, or devoted son, or wise older brother. He could just be _Walter_. And that, he had to admit, felt rather nice.

Now, if only he could figure out what had Una running off like that…

Standing up and brushing grass of the seat of his trousers, he set back off towards home, the strains of the Piper, which had fallen silent during his time with Una, picking up again to haunt him.

* * *

Unbeknownst to him, Una was propped up against a pine not too far outside Rainbow Valley, wondering if it was possible for a body's heart to burst out of her chest, and damning the corset that bit into her sides.

Calling herself all sorts of names her father didn't know she knew, she slowly felt her legs give way, letting her slide down the trunk of the tree.

She had been in love with Walter Blythe for more than half her life. But he had always been attracted to Faith, and Una had always simply been his good friend. She had to admit that since the dance in August, the one during which war had been declared, things seemed to have shifted a little - or so she thought, foolish girl that she was. Writing to him during this past year had been wonderful, though. So wonderful that she had allowed it to raise her hopes a little. She had gotten to know him better than she had ever hoped to - but it also meant that their easy friendship of old was gone, replaced with a new awareness.

Not that it meant anything, of course. She was reading too much into it, and the sooner she got over this, the better. Walter likely - hopefully? had no idea she was having these thoughts, and she preferred to keep it that way.

So here she was, sitting on the mossy ground beneath a tree, after having run for the hills at the barest sign of...what, exactly? Certainly not romance. With a soft groan, she let her head drop back against the bark, looking up at the grey sky through the needles above her. Closing her eyes for a moment, she pushed herself up, collected her bag, and set off for home. Self-pity, as her father said, was a cousin of selfishness. And selfishness was sinful.

Besides, Mother Rosemary _had_ wanted her home by ten.

* * *

Una made it home in good time, coming through the side door of the Manse just as the grandfather clock rang the quarter hour. She found Mother Rosemary in the kitchen, assembling the ingredients for the remaining meals of the day. Looking up from her cookbook, which was perched on a music stand borrowed from the parlor at the Manse or the choir room of the Presbyterian church, she gave Una a warm smile, followed by an apron and orders to wash her hands.

"You're late," she remarked after Una reemerged from her hand-washing. "Did you have far to go?"

Una shook her head, realizing too late that her stepmother, who had her back turned, couldn't see her. "No," she said, "only Rainbow Valley."

Unbeknownst to her, Rosemary sent a knowing look out the kitchen window, in the direction of an invisible Ingleside. "I hear Walter Blythe's home from Redmond."

A nearly imperceptible catch of breath behind her. "Yes. He is." Choppy little sentences that told her more in their silences than their words did. Rosemary Meredith had known of Una's love for Walter probably longer than Una herself had. In her heart of hearts, she hoped that something might come of it, and that Una's young heart might not be broken as hers had.

But for now, all she could do was wait and see.

Turning away from the kitchen window and her thoughts, she smiled at Una again.

"Hand me that flour?"

* * *

 _Look at that...no quotes!_

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song "The Girl I Left Behind Me", an English folksong dating back to the Elizabethan era, although the first printing of the text occurred in 1791. However, the version I'm using here is from the American Civil War._

 _And because I love turning the Author's Notes into an impromptu history lesson, this song also has some use in the First World War. British soldiers came up with their own version, containing the following charming lyrics:_

Kaiser Bill is feeling ill,

the Crown Prince has gone barmy,

We don't give a f*** for old von Kluck

And all his bleedin' army.

 _The censoring is mine._

 _Au revoir (but not good-bye - for those of you who get the reference),_

 _Anne_


	5. Tho' Skies Seem Grey

_Hello again! It's been a while, hasn't it? I have excuses ranging far and wide, from papers to university applications to an extremely inconvenient autoimmune flare-up. Coupled with a healthy dose of writer's block (I love Walter and Una, but goodness they're a pain sometimes), I've had a month's absence from writing - but inspiration struck, and this chapter was written in a little under two days. Yes, I'm quite satisfied. So please enjoy this humble offering of a chapter, and pray that we don't have to wait so long for the next one._

* * *

 _2 May, 1915_

Normally, Walter enjoyed church. He liked the sights, sounds and smells around him - the way the light filtered through the stained glass of the windows, Reverend Meredith's sermons, and the smell of beeswax and lemon from the candles and the polish on the pews. He loved feeling at peace, the feeling that came from being close to God. Of all the Ingleside children, Walter had always been the most devout - had even considered attending seminary for some time.

But today, instead of the tinted light, the candles and the sermon, Walter heard the wailing of bagpipes and dying men, smelled the sulfur of the guns, and saw nothing but blood. So much blood. The thought of so much of it being spilled - turning the soil red - sickened him. He tried to concentrate on the sermon, to let it infuse his spirit as it usually did, but his mind only wandered further into the battlefields of France.

 _Lord,_ he prayed _, help me here. I need some measure of peace if I'm ever to make it out of here with my sanity intact._

His eyes roamed around the sanctuary, looking for something to grab onto as an anchor. Several rows ahead of him and across the center aisle, he caught sight of the grey-blue hat and dress of Una, next to the more eye-catching attire of Faith. As though sensing his eyes on her, Una turned slightly, meeting his grey eyes with her blue ones. She gave him a small smile before quickly turning back towards the front to watch her father.

And so it remained for the rest of the sermon. Walter's eyes remained fixed on _Miss_ Meredith, instead of her father. The question that had been gnawing at him all week reared its head again. What had he said to cause her to go running off like that? He could, he supposed, ask her after church - but why on Earth would he do that?

* * *

Una felt a tap on her shoulder and whirled around to find herself looking up into Walter's twinkling eyes. _Oh, good Heavens._ She willed her heart out of her throat and into its normal place, and prayed that her cheeks weren't as red as the heat in them told her they were. After all, she'd run off on him earlier that week - what must he think of her?

What Walter was thinking was how lovely she looked, before banishing that thought to the recesses of his mind. Temporarily struck dumb - something that seemed to be happening more often when he was in her presence - he watched Faith and the twins over Una's shoulder, until he realized that they were all looking at _him_. Turning back to Una's upturned, expectant face, he cleared his throat slightly.

"I...I was going to ask if I could walk you home…" And right there, Walter Cuthbert Blythe, schoolmaster and poet, had managed to sound like another Cuthbert of his mother's tales.

The expectant look on Una's face turned stiff. "I think I can find my way next door." She nodded to the Manse, which was truly less than a stone's throw away.

"Rainbow Valley, then?" he asked, feeling the bite of disappointment when she shook her head.

"I have to help Mother Rosemary with dinner," she explained, the relief she felt that he was still willing to speak to her mingling with her disappointment. "Tomorrow?" she offered, trying to end the conversation quickly. The minister's daughter talking with a young man after church - gossip would fly.

"Very well, then," he agreed. "Shall I come collect you?"

A small smile cracked the marble of her face. "Only if you want to carry the picnic basket." At his nod, it broadened, fueled mostly by relief. "How does eleven-thirty sound?"

"See you then."

* * *

The following morning found Una packing a hamper in the Manse kitchen. Humming slightly to herself to cover the butterflies in her stomach, she added a few cookies to the sandwiches that already lay in the basket.

"You're in an awfully good mood," Faith noted as she entered the kitchen. "Would it have anything to do with the basket you're packing?"

"I'm meeting Walter at half past eleven." _Thank heavens that came out so easily_ , thought Una. "Hand me the tea, please?"

The bottle of tea, along with two teacups and their accompanying saucers, found its way into the basket. Una straightened up, and pulled her apron over her head to hang on the nail outside the kitchen door.

There - time enough to find a cardigan and replace her slippers with proper shoes. But Faith was still looking at her - no, _through_ her, as though seeing something or someone a million miles away.

"Faith?"

Nothing.

" _Faith._ "

Faith's eyes blinked once, twice. She shook her head, seeming to clear some internal cobweb or other. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I was just thinking."

Una took her sister's hands in hers. "He'll be all right, Faith."

A haunted look crossed Faith's face. "I haven't heard from him in almost three weeks. Jem's not the most prolific writer, I know, but this is a record even for him."

"We'd know, Faith," Una wrapped her arms around her sister. "We'd know. There are telegrams, and letters - and Dog Monday most of all." Pulling back, she looked hard into Faith's eyes, blue meeting brown. "Any day now, a big fat letter detailing everything that's happened in the last few weeks, full of apologies for not replying to what I'm fairly certain are daily letters, will arrive, and all will be well. Understand?"

Faith sniffed, giving a small nod. Una gave her a small backward push into one of the kitchen chairs, handing her a cup with some of the leftover tea. "Drink that - I'll see if I can hunt down some bread and butter."

At this, Faith gave a watery smile. "Una, Una. Always our mother."

Una, never one to roll her eyes, had to suppress one now. "No, that's Mother Rosemary. You just can't take care of yourselves properly. Here," she handed Faith a piece of bread slathered in butter and drizzled with a spoonful of honey. "See if that doesn't make you feel better."

With each bite of bread, Una could see the spunk returning to her sister. Privately, she wondered when Faith had last eaten.

Returning spunk unfortunately meant returning inquisitiveness. "So you're going walking with Walter Blythe?"

Una knew that tone. It was the one that meant Faith wouldn't give up on her line of questioning unless something distracted her - _fast._

The prayed-for distraction came in the form of three sharp raps on the kitchen door, which opened to reveal Walter, a small basket on his arm, and little Bruce.

"Good morning, Una - I hear I'm to play pack mule today," Walter said as he stepped into the kitchen. "I was told to bring these along and to contribute something to our picnic." He let her take a peek inside the basket. _Plum puffs_ , Mrs. Blythe's own recipe. Catching sight of Faith, he nodded to her. "Hello, Faith."

Una well remembered a time when the very sight of her sister had been enough to turn Walter Blythe's ears a bright pink. Today, however, he treated her as he would anyone else. His gaze hopped from Faith, to the picnic hamper, and back to Una. "Shall we get going, then?"

Looking down at her slippered feet, Una sighed. "Give me a moment - I seem to be running behind this morning. And don't touch those cookies, Bruce!" she added over her shoulder as she left the kitchen. "There are more in the tin in the pantry. Make sure he only has _one_ , Faith."

After hunting down a pair of shoes appropriate for going walking, Una picked her cardigan and a wide-brimmed hat off of the coat stand, folding the tartan picnic blanket over her arm as she returned to the kitchen.

"There," she announced to no one in particular. "Off we go, then."

* * *

As they pushed their way through the ferns and into Rainbow Valley, Una took stock of the openness she felt after the compression of the small pathway in the forest. Turning to Walter, she said so, and he nodded in agreement.

"There's an American architect who works with that principle - compression leading into a larger space making the open space feel larger and lighter - I don't remember his name, but he's quite well known in the States.* Well," he shrugged, "the name will come to me sooner or later, I suppose."

After conferring, they decided to have their picnic underneath a large maple. Walter spread out the blanket, and Una set out the food, settling herself with her back to the trunk and removing her hat with a grateful sigh.

"Why do you always wear those large hats?" Walter asked, nodding to the straw hat with the eight-inch-long pearl hatpin skewered through the crown.

"You do realize that the only other fashionable point of reference is Faith, don't you?" Una asked, helping herself to one of Mrs. Blythe's plum puffs. "Firstly, you have to realize that Faith wears small hats for the shock value - I think she'd even cut her hair if she could get away with it," she mused before getting back to the topic at hand. "My skin, the approximate shade of parchment, does not do well when exposed to sun. I would rather be unfashionable than go through life with a perpetual sunburn. The hat may not be the latest style from Paris, but it's certainly practical. And I am nothing if not practical."

* * *

Two hours later, they had concluded their picnic and were walking down the road into Glen St. Mary. Walter looked up at the sky, where alternating ribs of cloud and sky gleamed like fish scales.

" _Mackerel sky,_

 _Mackerel sky._

 _Never long wet -"_

" _Never long dry -"_ ** finished Una, feeling a raindrop on her hand. "We'd best hurry if we don't want to be caught out in it."

Walter gave the sky a hard look. "We might just make it."

About halfway, however, his fears were realized wen one drop became two, then four, and then with a quick pattering, turned into vertical streams of water.

The pair found themselves taking shelter under a tree by the side of the road. The tree, however, did not offer much by way of shelter, and Walter was soon considering other accommodations.

"There was a barn not too far back on the road," he offered. "Think we can make a run for it?"

Una gave him a look from beneath the quickly softening brim of her straw hat. " _How_ far back, exactly?"

"One and a half bends?"

Una shoved back her ruined hat. A lot of good it would do her, anyhow. Unfolding the picnic blanket, she handed him one corner. "Very well, then. I assume run like mad, and the say wool repels water."

"On three"

She nodded.

"One...two... _three!_ "

And off they went, each holding a corner of the blanket over them, Una's other hand holding up her skirts higher than was proper, Walter's clutching the basket, which bumped against his leg as they scrambled back up the road. Two bends later (not one and a half, Una noted), they skidded into the hay barn. Sinking onto a bale, Una let Walter hang up the blanket while she contents of the basket.

"The teacups held up reasonably well," she announced. "Only one of them lost a handle, and that can be reattached. The leftover plum puffs are barely damp, well bundled in their napkin. I'd say we haven't done too badly."

"At least we're dry," Walter squinted into the rain, "unlike whatever poor souls might be out there."

Una nodded, thinking of the fishermen who were out on their boats. Likely a little rain wouldn't faze them, but she said a prayer for them anyways. While her mind was on a biblical track, Una found herself looking out at the rain. A chuckle bubbled out of her, causing Walter to raise an eyebrow.

"I was just thinking," she smiled, "if it keeps up raining this way, do you think we'll have to build an Ark?"

"Well," Walter looked at the two cats twining themselves around his ankles, "we've already got a pair of cats. I can be Noah, and you can be Emzara."

 _Hold a minute_. Wasn't Emzara...Noah's _wife?_ ***She opened her mouth to ask him, but he had already turned away, and was looking out the door at the rain. Surely he hadn't meant it that way - and she wasn't even entirely certain if Emzara had been Noah's wife, after all. She would just have to check her Bible at home.

"Plum puff?" she held one out to him.

"Thank you," he took it. "All that running made me hungry, after all." A puckish look that was generally only found on Jem's face crossed his.

"Well, savor it. It's got to last you forty days, after all." Una leaned back against the hay and gave one of the cats a scratch behind the ears.

Shortly afterwards, the rain let up. The roar of the rain on the roof became a gentle patter that slowly subsided. Una joined Walter at the door, basket and blanket in hand.

"No doves," Walter shrugged, "but there _is_ a rainbow."

They looked at the arc of colors across the sky until it disappeared from view. Then Una handed him the picnic basket, keeping the blanket. Stepping out into the tentative sun, she smiled at the sparkling world. "Never long wet, indeed. Come along, Noah."

* * *

Later, in her room at the Manse, Una balanced a large tome on her lap, borrowed from her father's study. Running her finger through the book of Jubilees, she came to a halt at a familiar name. Her heart, treacherous organ that it was, rose into her throat.

Emzara _was_ Noah's wife.

* * *

*This architect, as you may have already figured out, is Frank Lloyd Wright.

**English saying

***Book of Jubilees - see A/N

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song "Homeward Bound" (Lyrics by Howard Johnson and Coleman Goetz, music by George W. Meyer, 1917)_

 _Now, before you come rushing at me with your Bibles, pointing out that there is no book of Jubilees in yours: I know. The book of Jubilees is considered to be one of the pseudepigrapha by the Protestant and Catholic churches. In other words, if the author was misattributed, a perfectly authentic text might fall under this category. I will not try to argue for or against the book of Jubilees' authenticity, but suffice it to say that any pastor worth his theological salt would likely have a copy of the_ _pseudepigrapha_ _floating around. And John Meredith does._

 _Also, if you're wondering why the date at the top has magically changed: after some conferring with kslchen, it was determined that although coming home at the end of April is ridiculously early for anyone, LMM was rather loose with her timeframes. This gives us an extra month for things to happen between Walter and Una (one which I'm thankful for, even though falling in love on the spot is a trademark of LMM's characters. Ahem...Gilbert?) I'll go back and change the rest of the dates later, but for the time being, let this explanation suffice._

 _Love,_

 _Anne_


	6. I Wish I Had Never Seen Rain

_This chapter is the product of time that I could (ahem... should) have spent writing application essays. Why is it that we're at our most creative when we're the most swamped with work? It must be some kind of sick joke - I, for one, think that enough of my braincells are firing without making up plotlines on the side, but no...clearly, the braincells disagree._

 _Well, what's done's done - enjoy the fruits of my misspent time :)_

* * *

5 May, 1915

For Una, waking up had never been much of an ordeal. She was generally able to rouse herself once the sun's first rays shone over the roof of the Presbyterian church and tickled her face. Una liked waking up. She liked the feeling of slowly coming to life again - almost like a personal resurrection. Good minister's daughter that she was, she reached for the Bible on her nightstand which acted as a calendar of sorts - today's verse was from the fifth chapter of the book of Acts: _We must obey God rather than men_.*

Una pondered this while she dressed, pulling on chemise, stockings, and shoes out of habit. Picking her corset off the back of the chair she had hung it over the evening before, she hooked the busk down the front and tightened the back laces until her figure had assumed the smooth shape that was fashionable now. Adjusting her breathing to compensate for the corset, she took a moment to rest before continuing her toilette.

If people obeyed God rather than men, she wondered, would this war still be happening? She didn't believe that God would ordain an atrocity of this magnitude. This war was truly man's war on itself. Una didn't consider herself a theologian or philosopher, but she read the newspaper - who didn't, nowadays? - and generally tried to keep abreast of anything that happened in the world...so long as it wasn't fashion. That was Faith's domain.

Sufficiently recovered from her corseting, Una buttoned herself into a petticoat and corset cover, as the sky outside slowly turned from rosy-gold to blue streaked with cream. Taking her cue from the sky, Una pulled on a blue dress she favored before sitting down at her washstand.

Now came the real ordeal of the morning: brushing and braiding her hair. Una's hair was long - and what's more, it was thick. Unbraided, it reached the seat of her chair in shiny blue-black waves. Once brushed out, Una rebraided her hair and pinned it up. Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she gave herself one last look in the mirror.

Una wasn't vain, nor did she have any false ideas about her looks. Faith was the beauty in the family, after all. But then, just as the sky turned blue and the sun shone through the lace curtains behind her, Una Meredith was quite satisfied with her appearance.

* * *

Mother Rosemary was already downstairs, standing at the stove with an apron tied around her waist. Hearing Una's light step, she turned to give her a smile as she did every morning.

"Good morning, dear. Sleep well?"

"I did." Una remembered the dark days when Father had been miserable about Mother Rosemary, when she had not been able to sleep for worry about him. She had a feeling that he had told Mother Rosemary about it early on, and ever since, that had been her customary greeting every morning. "What do you need me to do?" she asked, tying on her own apron.

"Set the table and make tea, please," Mother Rosemary nodded to the stack of plates on the counter, "I'll follow with the toast and eggs."

Breakfast in the Meredith household generally revolved around eggs and bread in some form or other. Some days it was toast, on others, pancakes. And on very special occasions, such as birthdays, it was waffles. Today, however, was a perfectly ordinary Wednesday in May - toast and the blueberry jam made last summer were quite sufficient.

Once the table had been set and the food prepared, the various remaining members of the household trickled into the dining room, taking their respective seats. Last to come in was Faith, the dark circles underneath her eyes speaking to another sleepless night - another day had passed with no news of Jem. Una had seen the tell-tale lines around Mrs. Blythe's mouth when she had seen her in town on Tuesday; Ingleside had no news, either.

Father gave Faith's short skirts a cursory glance before giving a quiet sigh and saying grace. Una knew he had long given up on trying to control Faith's fashion sense. As Una had told Walter during their picnic, it was a small miracle Faith's hair was as long as it was.

Across the table, Carl and Bruce were attacking their food with customary gusto, while at the head and foot, Father and Mother Rosemary had their usual morning conversation of what had to be done, when it had to be done, and who had to do it, in between bites of food.

But next to Una, Faith was buttering a piece of toast, her face a careful mask of composure. Anyone not looking too closely wouldn't have noticed the fine cracks in the facade. Faith had the remarkable ability to act as though life was perfectly fine, when in fact it wasn't. The less fine life got, the more elaborate her act became.

Una remembered when their mother had died - after a few days of utter devastation, Faith had quickly pulled herself together, looking for all the world as though life was quite normal indeed. Only her family knew of her charade - if they were looking. And Una was looking. Without a word, she reached over and plopped a heavy spoonful of preserves onto the bread.

"Eat," she whispered. "You'll be no good to Jem if he comes back and you're too weak to even greet him properly."

A snort of laughter and a muffled sob escaped Faith. Beneath the table top, she gripped her sister's hand tight. And Una, with her own worries about her own Blythe boy, gripped back.

* * *

After breakfast, Father disappeared into his study to work on a sermon, while the boys disappeared into the great outdoors to do whatever it was boys did when they weren't in school.

Una had just sunk her hands into a sinkful of hot water and soap suds when a shriek came from out front. Dropping her scrubbing brush into the suds, Una hurried towards the front door, thinking that somebody must have been hurt, when she collided with Faith on the front steps.

"Letters," Faith gasped, clutching a packet of them to her chest, "a pile of them!" She was grinning like mad, and her face shone with relief.

"Well, go on," Una prompted her, "go read them - and tell us what's happened to him."

A packet of letters, she knew, was a good sign. It meant that Jem was alive and writing - the army post must have had a hold up of some sort.

It was a relief to see Faith restored in this manner. Three weeks without letters had really worn at both of them - Faith, because she was worried about Jem, and Una, because she was worried about Faith. That was the problem with being everyone's mother - if they worried, you worried, too.

Mother Rosemary came into the kitchen, her knitting basket on her arm. "I hear we have news from Jem," she said, settling herself into a kitchen chair before pulling her work out.

Una looked over her shoulder. "We do. Faith's over the moon - she looks years younger."

Rosemary smiled before pulling out a pencil and paper, planning out the rest of the week's meals. "We'll have chicken and potatoes tonight, and I can turn the leftover chicken into soup tomorrow. Cod on Friday, chops and greens on Saturday, and a roast on Sunday. The roast will hopefully stretch into next week, although the way Carl eats…" she sighed. "I'm also going to bake monkey face cookies today - hopefully that will keep your brother from attacking any food meant for supper." Upon checking the pantry, however, Rosemary sighed again. "Can you run down to Flagg's, Una? We need more molasses, I'm low on flour, and I'm down to my last spoonful of raisins."

Una dried off her hands, reaching for Rosemary's abandoned pencil and paper. "Molasses, flour, and raisins," she repeated as she made a list. "Anything else?"

"A bottle of cream for the potatoes, I suppose. Only the milk was delivered today."

Una tucked the list into her pocket, removing her apron as she left the kitchen. In the sitting room, Faith was curled up in a chair, deaf to the world, engrossed in her letters. Well, thought Una, they would hear any news soon enough.

Pulling on her cardigan, she snatched up her hat - a different one than Monday's, that hat not yet having recovered from its soak - and pinned it on, returning to the kitchen to get the market basket. She escaped into the warm spring sunshine, lightly scented with lilies-of-the-valley, and set off down the road that led into the heart of town.

* * *

Una was just leaving Carter Flagg's store with her purchases when a hiss of a voice reached her ears.

"In a barn with that Blythe boy...if you know what I mean."

"And in the middle of the day, too - in broad daylight!"

"A minister's daughter should know better…"

"'Just a picnic,' I was told - hah! Those two have been joined at the hip since he came back from Redmond…"

"Well, you _do_ know what they say about a roll in the hay…"

Una's face flamed brighter than it had in living memory. Turning on her heel, she walked out of the store with carefully measured steps, not looking back to see whom she had overheard...although she had a sneaking suspicion that one of the voices had belonged to Mrs. Hiram McDaniel.

Quietly stewing in her embarrassment, Una utterly failed to notice the other object of the town's gossip emerging from the post office.

"Una!"

She looked up - and there he was, coming towards her. "Good morning, Walter."

"We've just had news of Jem."

Una nodded. "So have we. A thick pile of letters was dropped off this morning, much to Faith's delight and relief. We have no idea what he's written, though - she's at home, re-reading them all."

"Are you headed that way?"

"Home?" Una asked, "Yes."

"Well, then allow me to carry that for you," Walter nodded to the basket on her arm.

Una's look could only have been described as one of disbelief. "You do realize it's not safe for us to be seen together, don't you?"

"Whyever not?"

Una tamped down a feeling of exasperation. Walter Blythe could be quite brilliant at some times - and quite dense at others. "Because of the barn."

"What about the barn?"

Una sighed. "Just as I was leaving Flagg's, I overheard some of the more gossipy ladies - and they were talking about _us_ , Walter. In the barn." Her face grew even warmer. "The phrase "a roll in the hay" was mentioned."

"Oh, dear." Walter took the basket off her arm, ignoring her splutter of protest. "I wasn't expecting that to come of our picnic." He grimaced in concern. "I'm sorry, Una - you being the minister's daughter, after all. I didn't think anyone would think twice of two people taking shelter in a storm."

"Obviously, they did."

Walter sighed. "And it's worse for you than for me. I'm one of the Blythe children - we're respectable, yes, but there will always be something a trifle odd about the lot of us. You, on the other hand…"

"Yes - the minister's daughter." Una kept her voice low. "On top of that, I'm the minister's daughter who's never done a thing to raise a public eyebrow since 1907. And you remember how people talked _then_."

"I'm so sorry, Una."

She sighed. "Don't be. It isn't your fault - you didn't cause the storm, after all."

"I can't help feeling a bit responsible, though - I _did_ suggest the barn."

They had reached a quiet stretch of road, safely out of sight of most of the town. "But what are we to do about it?" Una felt tears pricking at her eyes. Never - not once had she been gossiped about in this manner. And now - it was all so _untrue!_

"Nothing."

She looked at him, temporarily stunned. "I beg your pardon."

"Well, what can we do? Tack a notice to the church doors, informing one and all that the only thing Walter Blythe and Una Meredith did in that barn was talk about Noah?" Walter looked at her expectantly.

"The worst thing about this," Una tipped her head back to keep any wayward tears from leaking out, "The worst thing is that I won't be the only one affected by this. My entire family will be the object of scrutiny. All because the minister's daughter stepped out of line. My father could lose part of his congregation."

Walter reached out hesitantly and put a hand on her arm. "It will pass. At some point, something more interesting will come along, and they'll go off and tear another poor soul to pieces."

Una looked at the hand resting on her arm, seeming to wonder how it had gotten there. "Until then, I suppose we just bear our cross. This is not the kind of cross I ever envisioned myself having to carry."

"The only thing you can do with gossip, especially untrue gossip, is to let it run its course. We can't do anything about it, and before you know it, the old cats will be talking about Whiskers-on-the-Moon again."

Una shook her head. "Walter Blythe, I don't think I've ever heard you speak that way." She shook her head, admitting temporary defeat. "I suppose you are right - I hate the fact that I can't do anything about this, though."

They had reached the front porch of the Manse by then. Walter returned the basket, receiving Una's thanks in return. As she turned to go into the house, Una turned back.

"I do have to wonder how anyone heard of it - after all, the road was deserted."

"Who knows?" Walter shrugged. "The ways of gossip are mysterious - although I have a theory that gossip travels more quickly than anything known to man - even light." He tipped his hat, turning to go. "Good day to you, Miss Meredith - chin up."

Una watched him until he disappeared around the bend before going back into the house. Walter might not be harmed by the gossip, but she and hers would be. And she had a feeling that she would not be sleeping very well until it all died down.

* * *

 _*Acts 5:29_

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song, "Before I Grew Up to Love You" (Lyrics and music by Max Friedman, 1917)_

 _For anyone wondering about Una's bible/calendar system: the book (Old or New Testament) corresponds to the month, the chapter to the day. It's not foolproof, of course - some books don't have 31-plus chapters. In that case, use verses._

 _Thanks here are due to all of you reading this, and to alinyaalethia and kslchen especially. The former is better acquainted with the Meredith clan than I am - and knows more about Presbyterianism than I do, making her quite helpful when trying to tackle my characters' religious views. The latter, of course, is my beta reader. It is thanks to her that my characters do things in a vaguely historical context and act appropriately._

 _See you soon-ish (after all, the Lusitania has to sink at some point)!_

 _Wyth wynne,_

 _Anne_


	7. I Can No Longer Stay

_Well, look who's poking her head out from under her rock! I'm back - and for those of you who were here in...September, I think, I sincerely apologize for the long wait. You are very deserving of another chapter - and here it is. I cannot guarantee a chapter very soon, but life ceases to be crazy in a couple of weeks...we'll see then._

* * *

 _8 May, 1915_

Walter looked at the newspaper in front of him, willing the letters to rearrange themselves into a less horrifying headline. But no, there it was in the black-and-white:

LUSITANIA SUNK BY A SUBMARINE, PROBABLY 1260 DEAD; TWICE TORPEDOED OFF IRISH COAST; SINKS IN 15 MINUTES.

Dimly, over the buzzing - or was it the droning of a bagpipe? - in his ears, he heard Susan in the dining room, talking to Mother as she collected the breakfast dishes.

 _"I am very much afraid, Mrs. Dr. dear, that something terrible has happened. Whiskers-on-the-moon came off the train from Charlottetown and he was looking pleased. I do not remember that I ever saw him with a smile on in public before. Of course he may have just been getting the better of somebody in a cattle deal but I have an awful presentiment that the Huns have broken through somewhere."_ *

"They have."

Mother looked at him, standing in the doorway. "Yes, dear?"

"They've sunk the _Lusitania_."

Susan narrowly escaped dropping a stack of plates. "I told you those Germans had done something terrible, Mrs. Dr. dear. Whiskers-on-the-moon was simply looking too pleased for it to have been anything else." She disappeared into her realm of the kitchen, presumably to take her anger about the Kaiser out on tonight's pie crust.

Mother's face, meanwhile, was stark white, her eyes flat grey without a trace of green in them. "I simply cannot believe that they would do something like this. Attack civilians…" she shook her head, one hand unconsciously stealing up to touch the pearls that he knew were fastened around her neck and tucked into her dress. Jem had bought her those pearls all those years ago, and she hadn't taken them off since he had enlisted.**

"I would tell you to go find your father, but he's out on a call - and the news will likely reach him before he comes home." Mother sighed, smoothing out her skirt. "Well, I suppose I ought to go into town and see whether there's anything to be done."

Walter wrapped his arms around her. He had not embraced his mother since before his teaching days; then, he had been shorter than her, able to come to her for his world to be put back to rights. Now, the world was too large, and far too broken, for Mother to fix.

Mother stepped back, looking up at him. Smiling rather damply, she put a hand to his cheek. "My darling boy…" she said quietly. Seeming about to say something else, she shook her head slightly and turned away, some of the spunk he knew she always had coming back to the surface. "I think I'll go visit Mrs. Eliot - Cornelia will certainly have something to say about this."

* * *

Walter walked his mother to the gate before going the opposite way. His head continued to buzz until he swore it was about to split. He could see the faces of the _dead women and children floating about in that pitiless, ice-cold water_ * - floating before they succumbed to the cold and wet and slowly sank to the bottom of the sea. How they must have suffered, feared - suddenly, Walter's gift for empathy didn't feel like such a gift anymore. He could practically feel the water closing over him before it robbed him of breath and life.

How could they? _How could they?_ How could a man coldly aim a torpedo at a civilian craft and fire it, knowing what the end result would be - and still live with himself?

The buzzing in his ears, the wail of the Piper, the faces of the dead, and the churning in his stomach - it all became too much, and he found himself retching into the ditch, trying to purge himself of the disgust he felt with the world.

And how, he thought when he had heaved until there was nothing left, could a man stand by and let this happen? How could he watch his fellow man be slaughtered? How could he not feel it in himself to step up and do something?

The realisation swept over him, chilling in its uncompromising bleakness. He was going to have to join up.

He wouldn't be able to live with himself otherwise.

* * *

Una heard the knock at the door and stood to answer it, taking a break from the headline whose letters screamed their sickening news at her.

"Mrs. Blythe," she opened the door, "good morning."

Mrs. Blythe stepped over the threshold, her warm smile slightly dimmer than usual. "Good morning, Una. Is Rosemary in?"

"I thought I heard - hello, Anne," Mother Rosemary came around the corner, tucking a stray curl away. "Terrible news, isn't it?"

"Simply awful," Mrs. Blythe shook her head. "I visited Mrs. Marshal Eliot earlier, and goodness, Cornelia has things to say about the Kaiser, the Germans, and men in general."

"Well, come in, please," Mother Rosemary waved towards the kitchen. "I was about to set on some water for tea - and Una baked something with cinnamon yesterday - I'm not entirely sure what it is, but it's heavenly. It's a miracle Carl hasn't eaten it all."

A short time later, Mother Rosemary and Mrs. Blythe were seated at the kitchen table with tea and "cinnamon something", as it would become known among the Meredith clan. Mrs. Blythe sat in a patch of sunlight, her hair gleaming copper. Una remembered how entranced she had been with that hair as a girl - red hair had seemed so much prettier compared to her crow's black.

Whisking away the thought, she busied herself around the kitchen while the mothers talked, listening - not entirely unintentionally - to their words.

"What will this do to the war?" Mrs. Blythe slowly stirred some milk into her tea. "Do you think it can be resolved peacefully, now?"

Mother Rosemary gave a hollow laugh. "Remember when they said the war would be over by Christmas?"

"Christmas of what year? 1917, perhaps?"

"We can only pray for good to win, Anne - no matter how long it takes."

Mrs. Blythe's laugh held no mirth. "I already pray for my boy, for yours, for my family, for your family, for Glen St. Mary, PEI, and Canada - and then I pray for the world. God must be tired of my prayers by now."

"Can we do anything else?" Mother Rosemary's smile was sad. "We stay home while the men go away. We wait and pray - and keep things running while they're gone."

"It's selfish of me, I know, but I can't help but be thankful Gilbert's too old to go rushing off at the drop of a hat. I know he would, otherwise."

"His job at home is just as important as any overseas, and you know it."

"But does he?"

Mother Rosemary's rings flashed as she covered Mrs. Blythe's hand with her own. "Maybe someone needs to tell him. Now, what can we do here at home, other than read the papers and knit socks?"

Mrs. Blythe pulled her omnipresent notebook and pen out of her handbag. "Well, we have the Red Cross, and the Junior Reds. The Church sends a package when it can. We need something everyone can get behind."

"We have prayer meetings, although I don't think that's what you had in Junior Reds do have that concert coming up. But there's some sort of kerfuffle regarding performers; I don't even know if they have enough numbers to warrant a show. You would know better, I think." Mother Rosemary poured some more tea into her cup, offering some to Mrs. Blythe, who shook her head.

Una took a deep breath. "I can perform. If they need me to." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Because never, not once in her life, had Una Meredith volunteered to perform publicly.

Mrs. Blythe looked at her, brightening. "That would be wonderful, Una. Rilla will be thrilled to have another act. And I cannot wait to hear you - you play so wonderfully."

Una felt her face warm at the praise. Mrs. Blythe had occasionally come by the church while Una was practicing, and had been treated to an unintentional concert. If only she knew that when faced with an actual audience, Una trembled like a leaf, breaking into a cold sweat.

She mustered up a shaky smile, the buzzing in her ears continuing undiminished. "Well, it's all for the war effort. It's a small contribution to help the Belgians."

"Yes, it is." Mrs. Blythe's expression became more serious. "We cannot imagine what those poor people have to bear. We can try to help, of course, but…" she shook her head, her fork turning her "cinnamon something" to crumbs.

"We do our best," Mother Rosemary said. "Really, that's all we can do. And now, we have this concert, Anne. It's bound to raise something for them."

"And it will raise spirits here," Mrs. Blythe stood, smiling at both of them. "Don't worry about me - I can see myself out."

* * *

"I'm surprised you volunteered to perform, Una," Mother Rosemary said once Mrs. Blythe was gone. "After all, you aren't too fond of it. However," she raised a finger at Una's protests, "I think it's an excellent idea. And I do hope to hear you play at it."

Una felt her stomach turn to jelly, quivering a little with every heartbeat. What had she gotten herself into, she wondered? The reality of performing had not quite set it - there was still a slight hum in her ears.

"Una?" Mother Rosemary looked at her curiously. "Are you all right? You've gone white."

Una nodded mutely, tamping down any nausea at the thought of playing the piano - _in front of people._

 _Dear God - performing in front of people._ She loved playing for herself - and yes, it was a selfish pleasure, she supposed. She didn't mind playing for others, as long as she didn't know they were there. So what was she going to do - play blindfolded?

Mozart had done it, after all.

But then again, she was no Mozart.

"Excuse me." She pushed away from the table, feeling lightheaded. She wasn't entirely certain where she was going until she was on the back stairs, headed towards the back garden. This time of year, it was usually full of Mother Rosemary's peonies, the bushes heavy with blooms. A cooler winter had set them back a little, but the peonies were already there, their fists of petals ready to burst any day. Una's knees gave out nearer the back of the garden, where the flowers grew thickly.

Taking deep breaths, Una tried to understand why she, of all people, had volunteered to perform. She, painfully shy Una, who grew nervous at the thought of speaking to people, let alone playing the piano in front of them.

What had she gotten herself into? She could not go back on her word, not after having given it to Mrs. Blythe. Still feeling like a fish gasping for air, she wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking back and forth. There were no two ways about it - she was going to have to play for at least half of Glen St. Mary.

Well, if Jem and Jerry could go fight Germans, and Walter could shore up the courage to enlist, she could play a short piece with an audience.

A flash of color caught her eye, and she looked up to notice one of the first peonies poking out of the green leaves. It was a delicate blush pink, so pale that it almost tipped into white. Reaching out, Una carefully touched its petals, feeling a bit calmer. If Mother Rosemary's peonies were blooming, then something was still right with the world.

But to have it happen after such an awful day in history...Una sighed, pushing herself off the ground and back towards the house, realizing only once she was inside that the flower was clutched in her hand.

* * *

Anne Blythe took a moment on her way home to step into Rainbow Valley. The town had been absolutely filled with people, all talking about the atrocity of it all, how the Germans could coolly torpedo a civilian ship that had absolutely no purpose in the war. She had expected to see Gilbert somewhere in there, but he was probably out on a call and wouldn't be back until later. For Anne, it had been a day of speaking to some people, consoling others - as a doctor's wife, she was rather good at that, after all. But sometimes, couldn't people see that she needed some consoling, as well?

Anne looked around, remembering the days when all - almost all - of her children had been in Rainbow Valley, hearing their giggles, mutterings, and occasional shrieks of laughter through the veil of time. And now...now they weren't here anymore. Jem - dear Jem, whose pearls were just as precious, if not more so, than the ones Matthew had given her all those years ago - in goodness-knows-where, Europe; Shirley was likely counting the minutes until he could join up; the twins were at Redmond, or teaching school, and occasionally at home; Rilla was _taking care of an infant_ , for heaven's sakes. And Walter...he would be next to go. She had seen it that morning, _truly_ seen it. She had known it would be coming, of course, but until today she had been able to ignore it, pretend that Walter would be going back to college in September.

Would he even be alive in September?

A sob rose in her throat, and Anne leaned against an old pine for support. Gone were the days when she could simply climb a tree and escape her troubles. Her troubles were far too large for a tree to solve her problems. It was her job to prop others up now, and she couldn't do that when she was halfway up a tree.

But if she just stayed here, just for another five minutes...was she even allowed five minutes? She had children to take care of, as long as they were there to be taken care of. Truly, she thought, you didn't realize how fleeting life was until your children left you.

How ironic, she realized, that the only child she would always have was the one that had been taken from her first.

There was a rustling, and Anne realized she was no longer alone. Turning around to see what hapless creature had decided to intrude upon her, she caught sight of a grey suit and black medical bag before the identity of her companion dawned on her through the blur of tears.

"Gil?" She hadn't called him that in years. Hastily swiping at her eyes, she hitched up a smile that was only a little forced. "I didn't think I'd see you until supper, if not later."

"Neither did I." Dr. Gilbert Blythe wasn't fooled for a minute by his wife's smile. Her eyes were competing with the grass in terms of greenness, and there was still a tear clinging to her chin where her hasty swipe hadn't caught it.

"I was on my way back," he offered by way of explanation, "and...it's been a rather long day. I thought I might take a moment to commune with the trees, the way you used to."

"Great minds think alike." Anne took his hand, weaving her fingers through his. "How was your day?"

"Everyone is angry. More shocked than angry, I think. They can't believe that something like this would happen."

"I know I can't."

"It's an entirely different world than the one we grew up in, Anne-girl." Gilbert gathered her closer to his side. "Who would have thought…"

He didn't complete the sentence. They both knew how it would have ended. _Who would have thought we would be sending our children to a war?_

"Now," he said, "why were you crying when I found you?"

"I wasn't...oh, very well, I was," Anne sighed. "You see, I started thinking about Rainbow Valley. And then I thought about Jem...and then Shirley...and the twins...and Rilla...and Jims...and Walter."

"Has he said anything yet?"

Silently, Anne shook her head. "Nothing. But it's in his eyes now - and there's no use fighting it." She turned into his shoulder. "What is he going to do, Gilbert? It will destroy him, if it doesn't kill him outright. He can't bear ugliness, and…" at this, Anne's voice caught, and felt Gilbert's hand come up to stroke her head, dislodging her hat.

"We want to keep them all safe, sweetheart. But we can't." Gilbert's voice was suspiciously damp. "We never could. Not with all your mothering, nor I with my doctoring. We can try, of course, only to fail and crash like one of those aeroplanes I suspect Shirley dreams of flying."

"Oh, have mercy on us all," Anne mumbled against the wool of his suit. "I can't worry about that, too. One child at a time, please." She pulled back far enough to look up at him. "At least I can rest easy knowing you aren't going to be rushing off to some corner of the earth."

A far-off look came into Gilbert's eyes. "That you can." The boy in him dreamt of glory on the battlefields, but the man in him knew that for every ounce of glory, there was a tonne of pain. Besides, someone had to patch up the boys when - if - they came home. Gilbert knew where he was needed.

Anne leaned against him, enjoying the simple, comforting sensation of being held. "Good. I don't think I could bear it if you left me, too." So many had left her already…

They stood there until Anne's breathing had evened out, before Gilbert wrapped his arm around her waist and steered them back towards the road, where the buggy was still waiting, the horse happily mowing the grass beside it.

"Let's head home, Anne-girl. I'll make us some tea and toast."

She smiled up at him, at the memory of the teas and toasts of their early marriage. _"Whither thou goest, there go I._ "***

* * *

* _Rilla of Ingleside_

** A slight reference to _Precious Pearls_ by mavors4986

*** Ruth 1:16

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song "Good-bye Dolly Gray" (Lyrics by Will D. Cobb, music by Paul Barnes, 1897 or 1900. Here, the internet and a 1910 printing of this piece are at odds with one another. The internet says 1897, my sheet music says 1900. Who do I go with? Either way, there are some lovely renditions out there that you should definitely go listen to.)_

 _On the use of "kerfuffle": I had to look this up. But yes, it existed, instead of being some modern word I imagined it to be. It would appear to be descended from the Scots Gaelic word for "to dishevel", sometime in the 16th century. With time, it went through variations of "carfuffle" and "curfuffle", before being standardized in the 20th century as "kerfuffle." Other theories include that it was an entirely made-up word, with "ker-" added for emphasis. But I prefer theory No. 1._

 _And so concludes our English lesson for today :)_

 _Wyth wynne,_

 _Anne_


	8. I Vow to Thee, My Country

_Hey, remember me? I have returned (I wasn't really gone...just asleep). Accept, I beg you, my humble apologies, along with this little chapter. This chapter is where my little historian's heart began to flutter. I got to research things! I can't really say more without giving the chapter away, so let's proceed..._

* * *

 _23 May, 1915_

Sunday had come, and Sunday was almost gone. Walter had spent the last two weeks shoring up the courage, and then making plans to enlist. It was all settled now: tomorrow was Monday. He would take the early train to Charlottetown, before he - or Mother - could make his mind up otherwise.

It was all decided now. This time tomorrow, he would be an enlisted man. The thought was both wondrous and terrifying. Walter Blythe - a soldier. No more feathers in his pockets, no more hisses as he walked through Redmond.

He looked at the moon rising over the trees; not quite full - it would be by Friday. Framed by the vines climbing the porch, it hung in the sky, casting light and shadows in equal measure. The rocking chair squeaked a little as he rocked back, the sound mingling with the sounds of twilight. This was what he would leave behind - this was the image of Ingleside he would carry in his heart when he went away. Ingleside, nestled away on its Island, with the spell it cast on all who came.

"Walter?"

The spell was broken. He looked to the door to see Rilla, her girlish form silhouetted by the kitchen light that spilled through the screen door.

"Hello, Rilla-my-Rilla," he held out a hand. "Join me?"

She pushed open the door, crossing the porch to sink down on the floorboards next to his chair, leaning against his leg with a sigh.

"Walter, I've had what Mother calls a Jonah day." Her voice took on the depths-of-despair quality it had when the world was not going the way the youngest Blythe wanted it to. "I have had to eat a slice - no, several _pounds_ \- of humble pie."

He bit back a chuckle. He loved Rilla dearly, but he privately wondered if she had tasted quite enough humble pie in her time. Well, he thought philosophically, time enough for that in the years to come. "And whose china did you have to eat it off of?"

Another sigh. "Irene Howard's."

"I thought you two were friends."

A third sigh, this one so deep it might as well have come from her toes. "We were, but then she insulted Jims, and refused to perform for our concert, and flounced out of the room. I don't think I'm prideful, Walter, but I flatly refused to go running after her."

"So what had you asking her today?"

"Mrs. Channing - she was supposed to perform at the concert - has to go to Kingsport to be with her son. Typhoid, I think. So, I was elected to go ask - no, _beg_ \- Irene to perform for us."

"And?"

"And I wore a dainty slipper on one foot, and black lisle and a boot on the other. That's what. She wouldn't stop staring at it. Not that I blame her, but to have to go crawling to her _and_ be badly dressed was too much to bear."

He couldn't help it. A chuckle bubbled up, causing Rilla to glare at him. "I'm sorry, Rilla-my-Rilla. You have to admit that to a fly on the wall, it would have been very entertaining. Did she at least agree to sing?"

"She did," Rilla looked over the garden with pursed lips. "And after the trouble I've gone to, I hope she sings like a bird."

A thin wail broke the silence that settled over them. Rilla sighed - Walter didn't remember Rilla sighing this much - and came to her feet. "Duty calls. Good night, Walter."

"Rilla," he asked just as she was pulling the screen door open, "is it all duty?"

Pausing, Rilla looked back at him, and he realized in that moment that she looked very grown-up. "No," she said softly, "I'm really quite fond of Jims."

With that, the door swung shut, leaving him alone on the porch.

* * *

Walter hadn't expected a good night's sleep, and wasn't surprised to wake up early the next morning. He washed and dressed mechanically, making his way downstairs quietly to avoid waking anyone.

Early he might have been, but two people were already downstairs: Susan and his father. He could hear the former in her kitchen, muttering something about "that animal," while whisking eggs, and found the latter at the table, calmly spreading jam on a slice of toast, skimming the newspaper propped up against the coffee pot.

"Good morning, Anne-girl," he said absently before looking up. "Oh, Walter. I thought you were Mother."

"Sorry to disappoint," a ghost of a grin flitted across Walter's face. Taking his place a the table, he helped himself to a piece of bread, buttering it before asking Dad to pass the jam, please.

"Gooseberry, or the very last of the cherry?"

"Gooseberry, please."

How normal it all was. Anyone could look in on them, and assume that both would go off and have a perfectly commonplace day. It could have been an oil painting: "Dr. Blythe and son, breakfast at Ingleside, 1915." Dad probably didn't suspect a thing.

"Headed anyplace special?" Dad's tone was light, still buried behind the newspaper. Almost _too_ light, _too_ casual.

Walter nodded, even though his father couldn't see it. "Charlottetown."

From behind his newspaper, Dr. Blythe gave an almost imperceptible, resigned sigh. "I'll drive you to the station. It rained last night; it would be a pity to get those shoes wet."

* * *

Walter brought the buggy around for his father. No automobile for Dr. Gilbert Blythe, thank you very much! A buggy had been enough for his Uncle Dave, and it would be enough for him. Besides, you could talk to the horse if you were having a hard day; you couldn't do that with an auto, could you now?

That had been Dad's explanation when Shirley asked him why he didn't get one. Walter preferred buggies over cars, and joined his father in doubting whether the internal combustion engine would last, while Jem and Shirley shook their heads, saying that the horse and buggy were on their way to pasture.

Dad came out of the house, his bag in one hand and hat in the other. Walter knew that in the ten minutes he had been out of the house, Dad had gone back upstairs to kiss mother goodbye for the day. Now he was stepping up into the seat, placing his bag on the floor next to him.

"And off we go." He gave a flick of the reins, and Hippocrates the horse began moving forward. As they reached the road, Walter looked back at Ingleside. "Susan's left the flag up."

"Italy declared war," Dad turned the buggy toward town. "It's her way of supporting them, I think."

They were quiet for some time, the only sounds coming from Hippocrates' hooves and the buggy's wheels as it splashed through the red puddles. Walter got the feeling that his father was biding his time, waiting for the right moment.

Until he finally spoke. "I take it you aren't going to Charlottetown to pick up some books."

"No, sir."

"Well, a father can always hope. Do you need any identification papers?"

"I'm told they just take you at your word."

Dad nodded. "How nice. A man's word isn't worth what it used to be."

Silence fell between them again, with only the horse's hooves to break it. Then,

"Mother isn't going to like this. She knew you were going, but -"

"She knew?"

"Walt," Dad gave a chuckle, "we may be old, but we aren't blind. I've known for some time, and your mother knew before that."

Walter blinked. "I've only known for a couple of weeks, myself."

"Out of all six of you children, Mother probably understands you most easily. You're all books, open to varying degrees, but you and Mother are closest in temperament. She knew you were going, probably before you yourself did. She's a wise woman, you know."

They could see the station now, and Dad slowed the buggy. They came to a stop, and as Walter climbed out of the buggy, his father put out a hand to stay him.

Walter turned, looking up at his father, a position he hadn't found himself in since meeting his father's height at sixteen. With the sun behind him, Dad looked...not old, but very serious, haloed like the saints in Kingsport's Catholic church.

"Walter," Dad's voice took on an urgent quality it hadn't had during their drive, "once you've joined up, there's no going back. Do you understand? From that moment on, your life is no longer your own, and there's a very real chance it never again will be. You will have to do things that go against your very nature; you will have to kill in order not to be killed. Are you willing to do that? Because if you aren't, there's no shame in staying behind, no matter what those pigeon livers of the White Feather say…"

During his father's speech, a strange calm settled over Walter. The drone of the bagpipes, which until now had followed him almost constantly, quieted down. "Yes," he said, "I'm sure." And he was - surer than he had been before. "Dad," he said, "I'm not doing this because I hate the Germans, or because I've received more white feathers that I can bear. Do you remember the Piper, Dad, when we were young? He called to me, just as I said he would. I have to follow him - we all do."

Dad seemed to accept that statement. With a quick nod, he reached down to shake Walter's hand. "All right, then. Best of luck, son."

Gilbert Blythe watched his son walk towards the station door, turning back just before entering. And then, with a quick smile backwards, he stepped in, the door swinging shut behind him.

* * *

 _ATTESTATION PAPER_

 _CANADIAN OVER-SEAS EXPEDITIONARY FORCE_

 _QUESTIONS TO BE PUT BEFORE ATTESTATION_

 _1\. What is your name?_

 _Walter Cuthbert Blythe_

 _2\. In what Town, Township or Parish, and in what Country were you born?_

 _Glen St. Mary, PEI, Canada_

 _3\. What is the name of your next-of-kin?_

 _Dr. Gilbert Blythe_

 _4\. What is the address of your next-of-kin?_

 _Ingleside, Glen St. Mary, PEI_

 _5\. What is the date of your birth?_

 _12th August, 1893_

 _6\. What is your Trade or Calling?_

 _Student_

 _7\. Are you married?_

 _No_

 _8\. Are you willing to be vaccinated or re-vaccinated?_

 _Yes_

 _9\. Do you now belong to the Active Militia?_

 _No_

 _10\. Have you ever served in any military force? If so, state the particulars of former Service._

 _No_

 _11\. Do you understand the nature and terms of your engagement?_

 _Yes_

 _12\. Are you willing to be attested to serve in the Canadian Over-Seas Expeditionary Force?_

 _Yes._

 _DECLARATION TO BE MADE BY MAN ON ATTESTATION_

 _I,_ _Walter Blythe_ _, do solemnly declare that the above answers made by me to the above questions are true, and that I am willing to fulfil the engagements by me now made, and I hereby engage and agree to serve in the CANADIAN OVER-SEAS EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, and to be attached to any arm of the service therein, for the term of one year, or during the war now existing between Great Britain and Germany should that war last longer than one year, and for six months after the termination of that war provided His Majesty should so long require my services, or until legally discharged._

 _Signature of Recruit: Walter C. Blythe_

 _Signature of Witness:_ _L. James_

 _Date:_ _May 24 1915_

 _OATH TO BE TAKEN BY MAN ON ATTESTATION_

 _I,_ _Walter Blythe_ _, do make Oath, that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth, His Heirs and Successors, and that I will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully defend His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors, in Person, Crown and Dignity, against all enemies, and will observe and obey all orders of His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors, and of all the Generals and Officers set over me. So help me God._

* * *

 _No quotes, unless you count the attestation papers. The version I'm using was in use until June 1915, so we're right at the tail end of things. But I was so very pleased to find the version of the papers that Walter would have filled out and signed; combining history with fiction (even if it's sad) makes me happy._

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song, "I Vow to Thee, My Country" (Text by Sir Cecil Spring Rice, 1908 or 1912, set to Gustav Holst's "Jupiter" in 1921). Sir Cecil was the British ambassador to the United States, and convinced Wilson to abandon neutrality and enter the war. The hymn has been associated with Remembrance Day since its first performance in 1921, and I first heard it at one a few years ago. It was also a favorite of Princess Diana's, sung at her wedding, funeral, and tenth year memorial service._

 _Trivia, trivia...you are the salvation of my A/N's._

 _Love,_

 _Anne_


	9. You Would Not Have Me Stay

_Well, it's only been what - two months since the last chapter? Every time, I promise you that the wait won't be as long. So, in the interest of not giving false hope, I make no such promises this time. You may rest assured that this story has not been abandoned...simply misplaced a bit in the shuffle of jobs, university, and a mad scramble to finish things before I move halfway across the country. However, I swear Scarlett-O'Hara-style, that I will finish this story. It just might, you know, take two years._

* * *

24 May, 1915

To say that Una had slept fitfully would have been an understatement. She had lain in bed, listening to the hours _bong_ out on the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall, slowly counting down until the moment she would have to step onto the stage in the Glen hall and play that giant piano. In front of everyone. The very thought made her heart stop, sending a shot of liquid adrenaline into her stomach, where it pooled, joining the nerves already there. No, Una was not sleeping well. She dropped off sometime between two and three, waking up again when the sun was higher in the sky than she was accustomed to.

Wonderful. She'd overslept.

Rushing through her toilette, she opened her Bible to the day's verse. Lovely - Paul's trial before Felix. As was her custom, Una tried to find a way to work the day's reading into her life, but here she had to admit that she was lost. Trials...could tonight's concert be considered a trial?

She conceded that it probably did not.

The question rolled around in her head in the hours after breakfast, until she was up to her elbows in soap bubbles, washing the dishes, when Father came in.

"I don't suppose we have any more of last night's pie, Una?"

His almost comical look of hope made her laugh. "Not with Carl and Bruce in the house." Wiping a hand on the nearby dish towel, she pointed to the perpetually stocked cookie jar. "We do have oatmeal cookies, should that be an acceptable substitute."

"It is, thank you," Father swiped three out of the jar, and Una couldn't help thinking that no matter the age, boys would never change. As Father turned to go, Una stopped him with a question.

"Father, what can you tell me about the twenty-fourth chapter of Acts?"

Father leaned against the doorframe, thoughtfully chewing on a cookie. "Acts twenty-four...that would be Paul's trial before Felix, wouldn't it?" At her nod, he continued. "Well, most books of the Bible fall into either ecclesiastical or historical teachings, or a healthy mixture of the two." He paused, adding, "Well, except the Song of Songs. But that's neither here nor there," his mouth quirked up. "But before I continue, do you want the short story, or the full sermon?"

"Is it even possible to have a short story when it comes to the Bible?"

"The Catholics would say no," Father settled back into his chair, steepling his fingers. "But even I would say that trying to summarize the Bible would lead to some tricky consequences. At the same time, if I were to try to draw out every facet of the book of Acts, we might outlast this war we're in."

"The medium-length story, then." Una wiped her hands on a dishtowel, joining her father at the table.

"Well, all right. In the interest of time, I would say that we look at one facet of Acts. Namely, providence. Because Acts is a more historical narrative, we don't see as many miracles in it. This, I think, makes it more relatable to us modern humans - after all, when was the last time you saw someone part the sea, or turn water into wine?

"Now, we see God mostly through providence. He's still there, working away in the background. And it's the same way with Acts. He's the backbone of the entirety of the chapter, the same way he still is nowadays. That, I think, is the most immediate thing to take away from -"

The bell sounded, interrupting him. With a quick glance at the kitchen clock, he sighed and stood. "Eleven o'clock already. That will be Mrs. Oakley calling. Sorry to cut this short, Una, but I hope I've given you some food for thought."

And he had, Una thought as she stood up from the kitchen table. He had.

* * *

Before the last notes of Elgar's _Chantant_ rang out, Una closed the lid over the ivory keys with a bang. Three mistakes - unacceptable, six hours before a recital. Every time she imagined herself in front of all of Glen St. Mary, her heart would skip a beat and her fingers would begin to tremble. Three mistakes. _Three mistakes_. One in measure twenty-two, another in measure thirty five, and the third in measure fifty. Absolutely unacceptable. There was only one solution, of course: practice again, and again, until there were no more mistakes. If she made mistakes, she would be the laughingstock of Four Winds. She did not stop to ask herself how the good inhabitants of Four Winds, not having the sheet music in front of them, would know when she had made a mistake, logic having taken flight long ago - possibly when she had agreed to play in this concert.

She carefully sat back down on the bench, lifting the lid she had slammed down only minutes ago. Taking a deep breath, and imagining that she was playing the large black behemoth on the Glen Hall stage, she started over.

* * *

Well, it was done. Walter let himself down on the seat with sigh, watching the clouds of steam roll past as the train slowly made its way out of the Charlottetown station. He looked down at his legs, still clad in the same trousers he had left home in - the recruiters had been out of khaki. Returning in uniform would have given it some finality, but now, he would have a few days to get used to the idea of being a soldier. Leaning back, closed his eyes, ready to let the ride back to Glen St. Mary drift by with a nap.

"Walter! Walter Blythe!"

The shrill voice rang out the length of the car, and Walter gave an imperceptible sigh. He knew that voice, and he had a feeling that all hope of a nap had just disappeared. Opening his eyes, he found himself looking into the pale blue ones of Irene Howard.

"Walter Blythe," she feigned surprise, "what might you be doing on this train? If I'd known we would be travelling together, I would have reserved a seat in the same car."

"The loss is mine, I'm sure," he stood, sitting back down when she motioned for him to. "What brought you to Charlottetown?"

Irene shrugged prettily. "Oh, I had to pick up a new dress for the concert tonight. Rilla asked me to sing at the last moment, and I just hadn't a _thing_ to wear."

"The concert," he said, realization dawning on him. "I'd forgotten - strange as it might be. Rilla's talked of nothing else for a week. I supposed I've been rather preoccupied."

"Well, you're allowed to feel a bit forgetful if you were in Charlottetown to enlist - you _did_ enlist, didn't you?"

He nodded, causing her to exclaim, "I'm so proud of you! You know, no matter what everyone else told me, _I always said, "Walter has as much pluck as anybody."*_

Any further words were torn away when the train rolled over a bump, causing Irene to hang on to the backrest of the bench. "Oh, goodness me! I suppose I ought to find my seat before I end up flat in the aisle." She turned away with a saucy grin, looking back one more time. "I'll see you at the concert, Walter."

How, Walter wondered, would he be able to face down some Germans, if he could barely make it one round with Irene Howard?

* * *

The applause was deafening, even from backstage. Una sat on a little chair in the dressing room, staring blankly at her music as Rick MacAllister left the stage after his reading. Somewhere, she registered Irene Howard, lovely in her new white dress, stepping into the golden glow of the stage lights to play for the chorus - Alice Clow had a headache.

The chorus flew by, and soon it was Miss Oliver's turn to take her place behind the piano while Irene took center stage to sing an aria that Una would have recognized, and probably requested the music for, had she been paying an ounce of attention. Then came the little girls' Fairy Drill, and another reading, and another chorus piece.

Then it was Rilla's turn, and she took the stage pale and quiet, her skin only a shade apart from her dress. Una stood in in the wings, waiting for her to begin, and realized that her friend was shaking even more than she was. Rilla usually wasn't afraid of performing - loved it, in fact. But tonight, she stood onstage, looking younger than her almost sixteen years.

But she took a deep breath, gave her reading, and left the stage after a little bow to the audience. If Rilla could give a reading - facing the audience head-on - with shaking hands, then Una could certainly play some Elgar with her back to them.

The applause nearly sent her scurrying back into the wings. Una tried to glide onstage the way Irene did, hoping she could project some sort of confidence she did not feel. After bowing, she settled down on the bench, a strange hum in her ears and a buzzing in her chest. Her hands were strangely still, clasped in the pale blue chiffon of her lap. With a deep breath, she lifted them to the keys, hesitated for a moment, letting them hover while she imagined herself back at home, practicing on the old piano.

And then she played.

Nothing magical happened. The world did not melt away, not did it somehow shake the foundations of the hall. But as she played, Rilla felt enveloped by a sort of calm - what was it that father had said that morning? God was always in the background? That's what it felt like, she decided. God was in the background, and if she made a mistake, it would bother her, yes, but it wouldn't count in the grand scheme of things. It wouldn't change the course of the war, and they would still raise the money for the Belgian orphans.

And then it was over. The applause crashed over her like a wave, nearly knocking her over and shattering the calm she had felt while she played. Una felt herself go pink, almost forgetting to bow before stepping offstage. In the dressing room, she leaned against the wall, catching her breath as she watched the bright moon shining through the windows, leaving milky puddles on the floor. She had done it. She had played in front of Glen St. Mary, and she had survived the ordeal. And, she decided as her shaking knees slowly gave way and she slid down the wall towards the floor, she was probably never going to do it again.

* * *

The concert was over. Walter streamed towards the open doors along with everyone else, exiting into the cool spring night. Somewhere, he heard someone say that over one hundred dollars had been raised that evening. Rilla was bound to be pleased with that.

He turned around just as the performers left the building, and saw Una, pale in her light blue gown, but her dark blue eyes shining with relief and something else, something akin to triuph. He moved towards her, offering his hand.

"Congratulations, Una. That was a lovely performance."

Her cheeks went the pink of a tea rose. "Thank you. And I only made one mistake."

"Did you? I didn't notice," he smiled. "And I assure you no one else did."

"It was, however, the most nerve-wracking five minutes of my life," she confessed. "I highly doubt that I will be playing in public anytime in the foreseeable future."

Una looked up at him, taking in the face with its heightened color and the sparkle in the grey eyes. He was still Walter, but he had changed in the last day.

"You've joined up, haven't you?"

He nodded, and her heart dropped. She had known he would, of course, but there had been a little part of her that hoped he would be spared. "Well. I suppose I ought to give my congratulations."

"You wouldn't mean it, though."

"No, I wouldn't. I would try to, though. Have you told anyone?"

He nodded. "Dad drove me to the station, and Mother already knew. I'll tell everyone else tomorrow."

"Have you told Rilla?"

He shook his head.

Una's eyes took him in, before taking a step back and adjusting her shawl. "Well, when you see her, tell her she did a wonderful job with the concert. Good-night, Walter."

"Good-night."

With that, she turned away to rejoin the Merediths. Walter turned back toward the hall door, only to see Rilla coming towards him, as though in a trance, her face paler than the wax crabapple blossoms in her hair.

* * *

They were walking towards home, arm in arm, _down the_ _moonlit road. The frogs were singing in the marshes, the dim, ensilvered fields of home lay all around them.*_

 _"You know?" said Walter._

 _"Yes. Irene told me," answered Rilla chokingly.*_

 _Dratted Irene_ , thought Walter. _"We didn't want you to know till the evening was over,"_ he said gently. "But _I knew when you came out for the drill that you had heard."_ He shook his head, trying to find a way to explain himself to Rilla. " _Little sister, I had to do it. I couldn't live any longer on such terms with myself as I have been since the Lusitania was sunk. When I pictured those dead women and children floating about in that pitiless, ice-cold water—well, at first I just felt a sort of nausea with life. I wanted to get out of the world where such a thing could happen—shake its accursed dust from my feet for ever. Then I knew I had to go."_

 _"There are—plenty—without you,"_ she choked out, looking at him with imploring hazel eyes.

 _"That isn't the point, Rilla-my-Rilla. I'm going for my own sake—to save my soul alive. It will shrink to something small and mean and lifeless if I don't go. That would be worse than blindness or mutilation or any of the things I've feared."_

 _"You may—be—killed,"_ Rilla said, bringing up a line of poetry he had read at college.

 _"'Comes he slow or comes he fast_

 _It is but death who comes at last.'"_

 _quoted Walter. "It's not death I fear—I told you that long ago. One can pay too high a price for mere life, little sister. There's so much hideousness in this war—I've got to go and help wipe it out of the world. I'm going to fight for the beauty of life, Rilla-my-Rilla—that is my duty. There may be a higher duty, perhaps—but that is mine. I owe life and Canada that, and I've got to pay it. Rilla, tonight for the first time since Jem left I've got back my self-respect. I could write poetry," Walter laughed. "I've never been able to write a line since last August. Tonight I'm full of it. Little sister, be brave—you were so plucky when Jem went."_

 _"This—is—different,"_ Rilla seemed to be losing a battle against wild sobs. _"I loved—Jem—of course—but—when—he went—away—we thought—the war—would soon—be over—and you are—everything to me, Walter."_

He shook his head. _"You must be brave to help me, Rilla-my-Rilla. I'm exalted tonight—drunk with the excitement of victory over myself—but there will be other times when it won't be like this—I'll need your help then."_

 _"When—do—you—go?"_

 _"Not for a week—then we go to Kingsport for training. I suppose we'll go overseas about the middle of July—we don't know."_ They hadn't told him much beyond that at the recruitment office.

 _One week—only one week more,*"_ she whispered mournfully.

Those were the last words spoken between them until they arrived home. They stopped in the pines that surrounded the house, and Walter turned to Rilla. _"Rilla-my-Rilla, there were girls as sweet and pure as you in Belgium and Flanders. You—even you—know what their fate was. We must make it impossible for such things to happen again while the world lasts. You'll help me, won't you?"_

 _"I'll try, Walter," she said. "Oh, I will try."*_ Then she lost the battle against the sobs and buried her face in his shoulder. He held on to her until the sobs subsided, then led her into the house, where Mother was waiting for them. Walter left Rilla with Mother and slowly climbed the stairs to the room he had shared with Jem before it all. The white curtains fluttered lightly, framing the window lit by the almost-full moon. He didn't light a lamp, deciding that the moon was enough. He looked around, as though seeing the room for the first time. There were so many memories here: the time Jem had decided to see if he could fly by jumping off the dresser; the time Walter had raised a trio of kittens in the closet. The memory caused a lopsided grin to surface. No, Susan had _not_ been pleased.

If he looked out the window and craned his neck a little, he could see the apple tree he had planted when he was small, in the Rainbow Valley days.

He considered going to bed, but decided he was too giddy to sleep. Sitting down at his desk, he pulled out a pen, inkwell, and paper, and by the bright light of the moon, began to write.

* * *

 _*Rilla of Ingleside_

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song "Send Me Away With a Smile" (Lyrics by Al Piantadosi, music by Louis Weslyn, 1917). It's a delightful song (as delightful as a war song can be), and I will thank kslchen (my intrepid Beta-reader) for steering me in its direction. I'm the epitome of a music nerd (hello, fellow music majors!) and this story has been a fun deep-dive into music history. I would have done it anyways... but it's always good to have an excuse called "research."_

 _As you can probably tell, this chapter is pretty canon-heavy. Because this is a "companion", if you will, to RoI, there is the occasional chapter that intersects heavily with the book. It is also a tad-religion heavy in retrospect - and because I didn't set out to write Christian fiction, I wasn't expecting that. But we're spending time with the Merediths… what was I expecting?_

 _Yours,_

 _Anne_


	10. Pack Up Your Troubles

And we're back with another chapter, a little over a year after the first chapter was published. To think that there was once a time when I managed to crank out three chapters a week... Ah, well - slow and steady and all that. But I do love this story, so I shan't be giving it up any time soon. I should also mention that this chapter has come about due to two lovely people: Kim Blythe, who left a review, reminding me that people still read this story, and kslchen, my beta reader, who helps drag me out of writer's block and fact checks this story (because let's admit it: when it comes to World War I Canadian military history, she's infinitely more knowledgeable than I). And so I remain quite grateful for their support... and occasional prodding ;)

* * *

31 May 1915

Chaucer or Shakespeare?

Shakespeare.

Goethe or Dante?

Goethe.

Cervantes or Milton?

Neither, actually. Tolstoy, maybe - _War and Peace_ , perhaps.

Walter stood in front of his bookshelf, slowly working his way across the spines, trying to determine which to take with him. He wasn't allowed to being much with him, and he wasn't expecting to do much reading at training, but just in case...he wanted to be prepared.

"Walter? Walter." Mother came in, bearing a stack of freshly washed laundry. "Susan insisted you pack more shirts." She smiled faintly, placing the carefully folded pile of snow-white cotton on his bed.

"It's only training. I'd have to leave it behind anyways."

"I might tell you the same thing," Mother cast a look at the books lining the bottom of his small bag, the only thing he would bring with him to Camp Sussex. "Do you plan on building a bunker out of books, then?"

A sheepish grin spread across Walter's face. "Just in case. I don't know which ones to take with me."

Mother ran her fingers over the spines left on his shelf. "It's like saying goodbye to old friends, isn't it?" She stopped at a particularly worn spine, pulling it out and turning it in her hands. " _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. You loved it; Jem hated it. I think even then, his logical mind simply wouldn't accept the Mad Hatter." She worked her way further down, pulling a dark green cloth-bound volume out. " _Peter and Wendy_. You stole this from Rilla, I believe. I tried to interest her in it, but you were always my most voracious reader. Tell me, dear - what quote first comes to mind when you think of Peter Pan?"

Walter cocked his head, pausing a moment too long. _"Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough."_ *

She smiled, although it did nothing to chase away the omnipresent worry etched around her eyes. _"All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust."_ *

"Do you believe that, Mother?"

She carefully replaced the book on the shelf. "I used to," she said softly, turning to him. She seemed about to say something else, but shook her head almost imperceptibly instead, before replacing the book and taking a step back from the bookshelf. A shadow had fallen across her face, and Walter couldn't bring himself to ask what had caused it.

"Well, then." She looked around the room, as though she would be the one leaving it the next day. "I knew before you went that you meant to join up. _I've had time to—to rebel and grow reconciled… There is a Call greater and more insistent than anything else—you have listened to it_.* I don't believe in making long, drawn-out ordeals of things - goodness knows I loved them when I was small, though - so I won't make a terrible fuss at the station tomorrow. Besides, as you keep telling me, it's only training. But even if I don't make a fuss, darling - I do love you. I know you're twenty-one and terribly grown-up, but take that with you," she gave a lopsided smile, "rather like the books I'm sure you'll sneak along in your bag, just as you always have."

She turned, knowing that the admonishments she had had to give Jem - don't forget to write, change your shirt once in a while, and wash behind your ears - were unnecessary with Walter. At the door, she paused, remembering her second reason for coming upstairs - "And Susan says that tea will be ready in half an hour."

As he listened to his mother's steps fade away as they clicked down the stairs, Walter looked back at the dark green spine on his shelf. He did not lie often, but he had told a bit of a lie to Mother earlier. The first quote that came to mind had not been the one about dreams.

 _"We hope our sons will die like English gentlemen,"_ * he said softly. Following the Piper was after all rather like walking the infamous plank. One step after the other, then… what then? What lay at the end of the plank, the end of the Piper's journey?

* * *

In the end, everyone accompanied Walter to the train, although as Mother had promised, a minimal fuss was made. Only Rilla clung to him a bit longer, trying to keep tears at bay. Dog Monday even made an appearance, nudging his head under Walter's hand for a scratch behind the ears. Father and Shirley shook his hand, Nan and Di gave him quick hugs and a token peck on the cheek, and Mother presided serenely over them all, the only betrayal of her emotion a small fluttering in her right eyelid. Just as he was about to step onto the train, Susan, who had come along in her Sunday best (including the hat with the cabbage roses that had come rather loose and, as a result, wobbled frightfully with every tilt of the wearer's head) pressed a packet of sandwiches, as well as a tin of monkey-face cookies and a bottle of lemonade into his hands. He assured her that the provisions would keep him from starvation between there and New Brunswick.

Then he stepped aboard, but quickly moved to the end of the train, leaning over the railing to wave to his family as the train gathered speed, carrying him away from them and towards whatever adventure awaited him at the end of the line

* * *

When the train rounded the bend and he could no longer see the station, Walter found himself an empty seat, and retrieved one of the two books he had packed before stowing his bag and food packets. Sitting down in a corner, he reverently opened his book, feeling the soft pages and the indentations made by the print. Goethe. Walter's German allowed him to say little more than _Am Anfang war das Wort, und das Wort war bei Gott, und Gott war das Wort_ ,*** in a terrible accent. He could trot out the occasional Bible verse, but Goethe, Germany's national poet, was beyond him. While he longed to read it in the original language, Walter had settled for English - a fact he was now thankful for; after all, imagine being caught reading German during military training. Bringing the work of a German author was enough of a risk as it was.

 _A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than now_.****

Werther's letters - at least at the start - always had a wonderfully calming effect upon him. Jem had grumbled about the nauseating language and purple prose and thrown it down about halfway through, muttering about people who couldn't make up their minds, but Walter found the story to have a wonderful sort of tragedy about it.

He slowly lost himself in the tale he knew by heart, barely looking up between Four Winds and Charlottetown. It was with a start that he realized that he had to get off - or miss his boat to the mainland. It was a trip he knew well enough, having made it several times the past year on his way to and from Redmond, but there was always a nagging fear that he would somehow arrive at the dock just in time to see the ferry steaming away without him.

Walter, however, arrived at the dock in plenty of time, bought his ticket, and went to the rails to wait. The chatter of people surrounded him, and he could make out snippets of conversation.

"...wouldn't dream of it! Can you even imagine that…"

"- it's true, I tell you! I read it in the paper yesterday!"

"Oh, come off it. That rag you call a paper wouldn't…"

"Henry, take care not to fall into the water…"

"Mother, when's the boat going to be here?"

"Here she comes, boys!"

"Here she comes…"

"...there it is.."

The _S.S. Northumberland_ steamed into the harbor, slowly approaching the dock, the passengers at the rails slowly transforming from flesh-colored pinpricks to dolls to life-size people, shouting and waving at the gathering crowds. Then the ferry was tied up, and the doors opened, releasing the flood of passengers. Once the dust had settled a little, Walter skirted the crowd and made his way on board, finding a sunny corner of the passenger lounge to sit in. The lounge slowly filled, the seats being claimed and the floor filling with the usual detritus people who weren't headed to training camp brought on their travels.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

Walter looked up to see a lanky young man roughly his own age, with sandy hair and a set of bright blue eyes. Unlike Walter, however, he was dressed in khaki, and carried a standard-issue canvas knapsack.

"Not at all." Walter moved his bag closer to him, freeing up more of the bench to his left.

Sandy hair let himself down on the seat, stretching his mile-long legs out in front of him before reeling them back in.

"Headed to Camp Sussex as well?" he asked.

"I am," Walter nodded, "64th Battalion. Is it that evident?"

"Only to someone who's looking," his companion's face creased with humor. "You've packed light, and you're about the right age. Well then, if we're to be fellow travelers and camp-mates, we might as well become acquainted now." He stuck out a bony hand, "Edgar Carrey."

Walter shook it. "Walter Blythe."

"What end of P.E. Island do you hail from, Blythe?"

"Glen St. Mary. You?"

"Summerside."

Walter grinned in recognition. "My mother taught there, not quite thirty years ago. You wouldn't happen to be a Pringle, would you?"

"I happen to be one of a very small group of non-Pringles, whole or half," Edgar removed his cap and ran a hand through his hair so that it stood on end. "It's a detail I pride myself on."

He proceeded to pull three sandwiches and a slice of cake wrapped in wax paper out of his bag.

"My mother sent me along with this, thinking I might waste away on the trip. In all fairness, she wasn't entirely wrong. I do have a rather terrific appetite."

"So did mine," aware of a slight growl in his stomach, Walter rummaged around his bag for the sandwiches and tin of cookies, pulling them out and proffering the tin. "May I interest you in some monkey-faces?"

"Don't mind if I do," Edgar helped himself to a cookie, "and in exchange I will offer you half of my cake. It's ginger. Now tell me, Blythe, what was it you had your nose buried in when I interrupted you?"

* * *

 _64th Battalion_

 _Sussex Military Camp, NB_

 _1 - 2 June 1915_

 _Dear Mother and Dad,_

 _Well, I'm here at Camp Sussex, which so far looks like a plain covered in white teepees. The tents in question are in fact not teepees, but are actually Bell tents. We sleep twelve to a tent, and there is a round stove with a chimney in the middle to keep us warm at night. I have yet to test the efficacity of this, but should be able to judge it tomorrow, after a night's sleep in the tent._

 _So far, the most glaring reminder that we are in the army is that we are all in khaki. Upon arrival, those of us who hadn't arrived in uniform (including yours truly) were marched off to the quartermaster's and kitted out. I was at the end of the line, so by the time I got there, uniforms were a bit scarce. I managed to find a pair of trousers in my size, but my shirt hangs to my knees and my boots are just the slightest bit tight in the toe. Haircuts were also implemented. With the change in hair and clothing, you won't recognize me when I come home in July._

 _I met another fellow on his way to Camp Sussex on the ferry from Charlottetown to Pictou. His name is Edgar Carrey, and he comes from Summerside. He says to tell you that he isn't a Pringle (not even a half-Pringle). We're in the same tent, too, and he seems to be a nice enough fellow. Likes to laugh._

 _That's it for tonight, I think. The bugle is playing, and we have to get up at 5:30 tomorrow, at which point the real work begins._

 _…_

 _64th Battalion_

 _Sussex Military Camp, NB_

 _4 June 1915_

 _For the next week or so, we've been told that our days will look very much like today. Up at 5:30, have a cup of brew, then off to the training grounds to parade for an hour and half an hour of exercise. Breakfast at 8:00, and then it's back to the parade square, to work on drills. Lunch is from 12:30 to 1:30, and then we return to our drills. The workday is over at 4:15, except for the unlucky few who are sent off to practice their latrine digging. Those are generally the ones who arrived on parade with their top button missing, or some mud on a boot. I have yet to be detailed to latrine and trench digging, but I'm sure that I'll get my turn sooner than I'd like._

 _…_

 _64th Battalion_

 _Camp Sussex, NB_

 _8 June 1915_

 _Dear Mother, Dad, Rilla - and Susan,_

 _I was glad to find your package at mail call this morning. The spice cake and tin of cookies are a welcome supplement to camp food, which is a far cry from Susan's. Edgar says that Susan must be a goddess, as the food nearly made him weep with joy. He's a little more hard-hit by the food here than I am._

 _We've also been told that we start working with rifles next week. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that - I've never fired a gun, and so I don't expect to be very good at it. But the other boys are over the moon, talking about how we'll be proper soldiers at last, instead of practicing drills with broomsticks._

 _Name and Address Here:_

 _Miss Una Meredith_

 _Presbyterian Manse_

 _Glen St. Mary, PEI_

 _Message Here:_

 _Dear Una, I thought you might appreciate the extraordinary size of the bread ovens here. As you can see, each is almost the size of a man. It's most impressive - and very hot. But since it is these ovens that "give us this day our daily bread," it's difficult to be ungrateful._

 _Yours,_

 _Walter_

 _64th Battalion_

 _Camp Sussex_

 _14 June 1915_

 _Dear Mother and Dad,_

 _Received your package this morning. Edgar gratefully thanks Susan for the tin of cookies with his name on it (having unwittingly discovered that the way to Susan's heart is through praising her cooking) and will be enclosing a note of his own. The others in our tent are also happy when a package arrives, since it means that we have a break from canteen food._

 _We began working with the rifles today. This morning after breakfast, they took half of us down to the range while the other half did drills. I was part of the first group, and around 9:00 we all trooped down to the shooting range. Once there, with my rifle in hand and a target to shoot at, I discovered something I had not had opportunity to learn yet: I have terrible aim. I took me the better half of an hour to hit the target, and even longer to get anywhere near the center. To cap it all off, my rifle kept jamming. Well, practice, practice, practice...I can't get any worse._

 _I can't believe that it has been two weeks since I left you all. I feels so much longer than that, but also like the blinking of an eye. It's a bit like college - you think the semester will never be over, and then suddenly, it is. I'll be home before you know it._

 _Your loving son,_

 _Walter_

* * *

* _Peter Pan, or the Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up_ , first published as _Peter and Wendy_ , around 1906

** _Rilla of Ingleside_

***1 John (or Johannes) 1:1 from the 1912 edition of the _Lutherbibel_. It was not uncommon to teach foreign language with Bible verses, and this was an edition I handily found online (being unable to find my German copy...it's got to be somewhere)

**** _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ , Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1774. This translation is dated 1891, making it (to my great joy) period accurate.

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song "Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag, and Smile, Smile, Smile" (Lyrics by George Henry Powell, music by Felix Powell, 1915). It's probably one of the first songs that comes to mind whenever anyone mentions the Great War, along with "Keep The Home-Fires Burning," so I'm quite happy to be quoting it in a title for the first time._

 _I don't know if I have any trivia or terribly exciting tidbits for the Author's Notes this time. I can tell you that the oh-so-romantic bread oven postcard that Walter sends Una is real. Look up "Camp Sussex bread ovens postcard" (or something like that) and you will find it. A lot of what Walter writes home about is taken directly from soldiers' letters home, although I confess that I made Edgar Carrey, the non-Pringle, up._

 _I should also mention that I made up any and all appreciation Walter has for "The Sorrows of Young Werther." I happen to utterly despise the book, having been forced to read it for a German class taught by my mother. I lost my patience with Werther (and Goethe) a few pages in, much as Jem did._

 _Love,_

 _Anne_


	11. Write and Let Me Know

_To misquote Mark Twain: "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated." It's been... how many months now? I shudder to think. In that time, I've moved across the country, gotten a job, begun university, and celebrated (I had to check) two years on this site. Huzzah! It's probably high time I produced an update for the "Teacher in the Glen" universe (such a long time ago!), but in the mean time, here's an addition to Walter's story._

* * *

 _22 June 1915_

"I missed Mail Call?" Edgar sat up on his cot, looking positively miffed. "Well, was there anything for me?"

"No," Walter rifled through his letters, "but that's what you get for taking a nap all afternoon. My rifle," he pointed to the weapon in question, " could go off right next to you, and you would still sleep through it."

"It'll be a useful skill once I'm in the trenches. Well, you didn't bring in a package, so I assume Susan the goddess hasn't sent anything. Pity; we decimated the last of her wonderful apple cake yesterday."

Walter stretched out on his stomach, his rather pathetic cot squealing in protest. "You can't expect her to keep you in cakes and cookies constantly, you know. For one thing, there isn't enough food in the world to accomplish that. And secondly -"

"Yes, thank you, thank you. What _did_ you get, then?" Edgar leaned over, trying to get a good look at the return addresses on his letters.

"One from Mother and Dad, as expected; one from Rilla; one rather grimy-looking one from Jem… and one from Una."

"Ah…" Edgar drew out that one syllable until he had given it enough meaning to fill a paragraph. "The famed Miss Meredith. The one you sent that postcard to. The one with the _bread ovens_."

"What about the bread ovens?"

"Nothing, I suppose," Edgar leaned back, crossing his arms underneath his head, "it's just not the sort of thing one generally sends to one's girl."

The letters slid to the floor, instantly forgotten. "My _what?_ "

"Your girl, Blythe. I trust you're familiar with the term. After all, most fellows here have got one. More than one, in select cases."

"She's not my… my…" Walter spluttered in protest.

"Girl?" Edgar supplied helpfully. "Very well, then - she's not your girl. I suppose she's seeing someone else?"

Una, to the best of his knowledge, had never "seen" anyone in her life. "No."

"What does she look like, Blythe? I've been imagining her with shining gold hair, green eyes - a veritable angel of mercy."

"And you'd be quite wrong," Walter said with some degree of smugness. "She's got black hair, for one, and dark blue eyes, for another. Although they sometimes border on grey if she's had a particularly nasty day - and what are you laughing about, Edgar?"

"Nothing, nothing," Edgar gave a luxurious stretch on his cot, which creaked frightfully in protest, and dangled his feet over the end of the too-short frame. "It's just that after three weeks of hearing about the illustrious Miss Meredith's humor, cooking prowess, and now her excellent looks, I think I've fallen in rather in love with her. And of course, you don't need to tell me that she has a figure like -"

"That's enough out of you," Walter sat up with more force than absolutely necessary. "She's -" _mine._ But she wasn't. In fact, Una was entirely unspoken for. Anyone - well, anyone who was left - was perfectly welcome to make any attempts he wanted.

And sitting in the half-light of a Bell tent in Camp Sussex, Walter realized that the idea did not appeal to him. It didn't appeal at all.

* * *

Later, Walter picked up his unread letters, deciding to read them outside. Camp Sussex was bordered by trees on one side, and Walter decided to head for a particularly gnarly oak he was sure Mother would have become firm friends with, where he sat down and opened his letter from Mother and Dad.

The usual from home: Susan hated "that cat," Rilla was up to her elbows in Junior Red Cross work, Mother was still knitting socks with Rosemary Meredith, and Jims had a new tooth. Dad scrawled a few lines at the bottom in his barely intelligible doctor's handwriting - and apparently, either the flies were plaguing horse more than usual, or the tide had washed in a crop of fried eggs. It was always hard to tell with Dad's handwriting; misinterpretation had sometimes led to side-splitting consequences.

Jem's letter appeared to have been sealed with mud. The thin sheets of paper inside were covered in the familiar pencil scrawl.

 _Late May, I think. Or possibly early June..._

 _France (?)_

 _Dear Walter,_

 _Congratulations on your conscription. We're all in the same boat again, now. You'll probably be at training camp by the time this reaches you (I'm sending this letter to Ingleside so that the folks at home can forward it to you, because I don't know which camp you'll be at). I remember how excited we were at Valcartier, so keen to be off and go kills Huns. As if we were at a school picnic or some such thing._

 _I feel like I've aged a thousand years since those weeks. Over here, we've just finished a big offensive - the biggest series of battles I'd ever been in. We gave as good as we could, but they still pushed us back a few miles. Ypres itself is no more. You've almost certainly heard of the gas the Germans are using (damned unsporting of them). Well, the only thing worse than the gas is the mud. You'll see for yourself when you get here. While the training you get at home and in England is good, the only way to properly train you for the mud and trenches over here is to quite literally dig up and demolish a decent-sized field, flood it to turn the dirt to a soup, and then have you lob grenades at each other across it. That would probably the most accurate representation of war over here. No orderly parades for us, thank you very much!_

 _Looking over what I've written, I'm realizing that I may have just succeeded in scaring you off, brother mine. I'm not trying to scare you… but perhaps I am trying to spare you the shock I had when I came over. I expected it to be orderly, like the war-games at Valcartier or Salisbury, but it's a far cry from any of it. The most useful skills from training camp are most likely trench digging, target practice, and bayonet training. A good aim could be the difference between living and dying. That, and Lady Luck. If she decides that there's a bullet out there with your name on it, no amount of target practice will save you._

 _Lord, that's depressing talk. So I'll stop with that and tell you about a funny thing that you may also come across. We were still at Salisbury when this happened, in the shadow of Stonehenge (a fact you will probably appreciate more than I did). One of the others - a fellow by the name of Partridge - decided to take a grenade, put it under his helmet, and sit on the whole thing. The boy was blown a good fifteen feet into the air - and he came down without his helmet's chinstrap. We never did find it. Perhaps it's still floating around up there, gone to the same place as the bottle rockets we never found._

 _Well, that's it for me. Let me know how training's going, although by the time I get your letter, you'll probably be home on leave._

 _Love,_

 _Your brother -_

 _Jem_

Jem's letter sounded different from the ones he usually sent home. Sadder, somehow, or perhaps more serious. He knew that Jem probably censored himself in his letters to Mother and Rilla, leaving out anything that wasn't plucky and cheerful. Walter, after all, did rather the same thing - failing to mention shared latrines and the strange texture of skewering a sandbag with a bayonet.

He still remembered his first day of bayonet training. About a week before, they had been given bayonets to attach to the fronts of their rifles. Then, they were ordered to run at a row of sandbags - loud screaming encouraged - and "kill" the sandbags as best they could. They were admonished to take "liver, lights and kidneys" out - a form of killing which struck Walter as grossly inhumane. Shooting was bad enough, but staring your enemy, another human being, in the eye and then stabbing him - hopefully before he stabbed you - somewhere in the organs just didn't sit right with him. But he had signed a piece of paper, swearing that he would do everything commanded of him to protect the King and Crown, and bayoneting Germans was part of that agreement.

Personally, Walter hoped never to have to use the bayonet. _He couldn't face sticking it into anybody, especially not after having gotten a taste of it with the sandbags. If it ever came down to bayonet fighting, he honestly had to say that he would prefer getting killed by a bullet. Or shooting at a German from two or three yards - no personal contact. That appeared obvious.*_

The omnipresent drone of the Piper's song rose up again.

"For _heaven's_ sake - aren't I allowed to have my own thoughts anymore?" Walter grumbled. The music softened, only to be replaced by

 _Theirs not to make reply,_

 _Theirs not to reason why,_

 _Theirs but to do and die*_

Wonderful. Now the Piper was quoting Tennyson. Well, thought Walter, if that didn't make it clear…

He looked at the stack of letters on the ground next to him. There was only one left - the one from Una. It wasn't that he'd avoided opening the letter, he told himself. He was just….

He was, actually. Edgar's words had hit him like a medium-sized freight train, and in the short time since, all his ideas and beliefs about himself and Una had become hopelessly muddled.

"His girl." Edgar had called Una _his girl._ Walter hadn't had a "girl" - not even when he was one of the last available males left at Redmond. White feathers tended to do that to a fellow. But even before that, he had been writing to Una every so often; she, along with the women in his family, had been his main female relationships. He had gone to the occasional dance if a classmate convinced him, but he never danced more than once with any of the co-eds. It was, he had to admit, quite probably a mutual decision. He wasn't tongue-tied while dancing, but he certainly didn't have the gift of effortless conversation.

Except with Una. Talking with her came as naturally as breathing. He had only been tongue-tied once in her presence - the Sunday he had asked to walk her home. He had not, as he recalled, walked her home, but instead joined her in Rainbow Valley for a picnic the next day. The consequences of that picnic were gossip all around and had caused Una pain. And frankly, Walter had to admit his reaction had been lacking. As one of the minister's children, Una was of course subject to more scrutiny than Walter was. As a woman, her reputation was at any given moment more fragile than his.

 _Well, let's see what Emzara has written…_

Two sheets of paper, neatly decorated with Una's shopping-list handwriting, met him. He remembered all the times in the past year that the very same sight had greeted him. Sometimes long, sometimes short, sometimes funny or sad, or sometimes just a little piece of home. And welcome. Always welcome, her letters were.

"Lord, Blythe," he muttered. "Try to contain yourself."

 _Dear Walter,_

 _I am writing this with a blister, having unwittingly rested my left index finger on a hot kettle. This is the inglorious end to an already long day of cleaning. I remember Faith telling me that she felt vaguely betrayed whenever she received an unexpected burn, for instance from some overly hot soup. I do know what she means - a little. I was just making myself a cup of tea, and suddenly, there I was with a throbbing finger. But I have only myself to blame, since I could have easily avoided this injury. I suppose I feel more betrayed by myself, rather than the kettle._

 _It's been a rainy week here, perfect for staying inside. I hope it hasn't reached Camp Sussex, because you'll be miserably drilling in it, day in and day out. Although it might qualify as superior training for when you're overseas._

 _I confess I'd rather not think about that, actually. You and I both know you're not a violent man, Walter. You never were. As you read this, you're probably sitting under a tree somewhere, away from everyone else. I hope they have trees at your camp - your postcard showed some in the background._

 _We're doing a batch of baking in the coming days, so look out for a package from us. I'm not entirely sure what will be in it yet, but it should be along the lines of biscuits and a cake. Maybe some preserves, as well. After seeing those bread ovens, it's quite clear that there's no need to send you any bread. Besides, it would probably be stale by the time it arrived._

 _I'll close now; it's late, and cleaning always tires me out. Be well, Walter, and remember to give yourself a little grace if you feel you aren't doing as well as you'd like. It's rare that it's as bad as you think._

 _Yours,_

 _Una_

Practical, steadfast, wonderful Una. For the not-quite-first time, Walter wondered what she would do while he was away. It wasn't as though he had any business complaining if some fellow or other stepped in and swept her off her feet. What might he be like, he wondered? Tall, dark, and handsome, probably. Heathcliff, Rochester, and Darcy rolled into one.

Realizing the direction of his thoughts, Walter gave himself a mental shake. This was Una, for heaven's sake, and she could court whomever she pleased. Without his permission. Even Edgar.

Feeling slightly muddled and not a little peevish, he returned his letters to their envelopes. Then, just as the bugle signaled the call to quarters, he stood, and slowly walked back to his tent.

* * *

 _64th Battalion_

 _Camp Sussex, NB_

 _23 June 1915_

 _Dear Una,_

 _I've just gotten through another day of training. Time flies when you're having fun, they say - which explains why each day feels about as long as three normal ones. I am indeed reading your letter from under a tree, as you predicted. You know me far too well, Miss Meredith._

 _While I am glad that you liked the postcard, it occurred to me recently (as recently as this afternoon, in fact) that there were probably better cards to send to a lady. I certainly haven't seen another fellow send bread ovens home to a young lady. So please accept the postcard accompanying this letter, with its view of the sea, not as a substitute, but as a sort of elaboration on the previous one._

 _It will be two weeks until I come home on leave, and with your permission, I would like to call on you a day or two after my arrival. Would that be acceptable, or even welcome, do you think?_

 _Let me know._

 _Yours,_

 _Walter_

* * *

*Adapted from the words of British non-combative officer Frank Raine

** _Rilla of Ingleside_

 _This chapter's title is taken from the song, "It's A Long, Long Way to Tipperary" (Henry James Williams, co-credited to Jack Judge - and sometimes the other way around). This song has quite the Wikipedia page to go with it, as I discovered. And apparently, Tipperary now has signs declaring "You've come a long, long way."_

 _I do love a town with a sense of humor._

 _Well, I'm off to catch up on several months' worth of FF reading. I've missed all of your latest work, and must rectify that._

 _Wyth wynne,_

 _Anne_


End file.
